


Never Ending

by riannagreengrass



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Draco Malfoy, Adult Harry Potter, Adult Hermione Granger, Adultery, Auror Harry Potter, Death Eaters, Espionage, F/M, Hogwarts Seventh Year, House Elves, Hurt/Comfort, Lemon, Ministry of Magic, Post Hogwarts AU, Post-War, Redemption, Slow Burn, Songfic, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-02 05:45:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10938222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riannagreengrass/pseuds/riannagreengrass
Summary: Slow burn Dramione | Life in their 20s was less than what either of them had hoped for, but they knew what they were supposed to do, until fate brought them together once again. "She doesn't belong to me," he thought with concern. "He shouldn't trust me," she reproached herself. In the midst of this war between the Dark and the Light, they should know better than to put faith in each other, but in this moment, none of it mattered. Right now, I have her, and she has me.





	1. INTRODUCTION: The Dearly Departed

_"Would it be a wrong time to love, if loving her changed me for the better?"_ \- Draco Malfoy

 **** She was drenched in the rain. Her hands were so numb from the cold, they didn't feel like hers anymore. Even as she watched her quivering fingertips trace over the soaked fabric of her long black dress, they looked like they were moving on their own. And her eyes hurt from the heavy rain—or was it the tears? 

_ I'm not sure anymore. _

She wasn't even sure if it really was cold. Her heavy dress clung to her so, it almost felt warm. Maybe it was all her imagination. Maybe spring was finally here. 

_How long has it been?_

She'd long lost track of time. 

Truthfully, she'd lost track of a lot more than time, but she didn't have the energy to keep up with the rest right now. The gaping hole that was his absence consumed her, and the last thing she could vividly recall was still the endless fields of white snow, and how heavy and lifeless his body was in her arms.  She could barely see the carvings of his headstone now through the pouring rain, but she knew every curvature of the words by heart. A burial so grand, so befitting of his honor, and yet so utterly incapable of holding everything that she had and still loved. His funeral went by in a blur. She could barely remember it. None of it felt real. 

_"We gather here today for the dearly departed..."_   

The Ministry priest had spoken for him with such reverence.

_"He was the hero of our time. A man forever to be remembered."_

_"He was a good man, dear,"_ his old colleague had sniffled softly to her. " _Such a good man."_

_I know,_ she had wanted to say. But what good was that to her?

She didn't want to believe that they had lowered his casket six feet under, but the headstone in front of her bore his name and mocked her disbelief.

_This is what we are left with._

_This is what_ I _am left with._

Her memory of the fateful night that she'd lost him was significantly more graphic. She wished it wasn't, but she'd revisited it so often, over and over again, so that she wouldn't let him go. So that she can continue punishing herself. 

_I could've done more._

They were blindly tearing through desolate fields under the cold February moonlight. His arm had hung heavily on her shoulders as she dragged him on in the snow, throwing hexes behind them as they went. Dozens of Death Eaters and You-Know-Who himself were closing in on them, and he was limping, growling in pain and frustration, with blood smeared across his face. She had tried to stop him from shielding her, tried to intervene, but when it became clear that they had nowhere to run, he refused to hide and stood firm, facing his lifelong enemy—

_"AVADA KEDAVRA!"_

_No. God please, no._

The next thing she knew, a shock wave had blasted her to the ground, crushing her chest with what felt like of a ton of bricks. She was certain that she had died, except everything hurt. And through the dizzying haze, she had heard someone scream his name. _His name._ And her eyes shot open in horror. Strong hands were gently hoisting the weight off her. She finally realized what it was that was crushing her, but she couldn't recall what had happened next. Someone yelled that the spell had rebounded on the Dark Lord. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was finally defeated. Her husband became a hero, but he was dead.

_But what good does winning do with him gone?_

_He's gone,_  she reminded herself again, like a mantra that kept her grounded in reality. She'd been sitting at his grave for weeks now, maybe months. And she knew everyone thought that she had gone mad, but she didn't mind - she was willing to hold on to any small bit of him that she can. They didn't understand. He had been such a constant in her life. Living on without him was unthinkable. Just unthinkable. How could she? 

2005, his headstone said. Her overly logical brain reminded her that it was just one among many. So many had died in this war. But her usual logic had shut down, and her brain couldn't process. 

2005\. It sounded wrong. Sounded too recent. All those names on gravestones, all those years, they had always been so foreign, so ancient. But this one, the only one that meant anything to her, was so close, so real. 

_It can't be._

She missed how he was always there for her. She missed him, but he was gone now ... 

From some distance away, she heard footsteps approaching, but she didn't turn to acknowledge them. It had been a while since anyone had come by to try and convince her to leave his side. _"Go home, Hermione,"_ they said. _"Poor woman,"_ they said. But she always said nothing in return, and stayed. Eventually, they went away. Whoever this was, they would surely go too, sooner or later. _Leave me alone. Let me mourn over my lost._ The rain was mercilessly beating onto her. It was almost painful.

The footfall stopped somewhere behind her.

"Hermione."

That voice. She recognized it, though she wasn't sure who it was. It wasn't Ron. She would know from miles away if it was him, just by the way that he stomped in frustration when she refused to budge. No, Ron had given up a while ago. She couldn't pinpoint the identity of this man standing behind her.

"It's cold out here." His tone was calm and firm. Somehow though, there was also an unspeakable sadness to it. His comment was more than suggestion, concern, or even pity. She knew pity so well now, she didn't need to look into their faces to sense it in their voices.

_Such a familiar voice, yet it feels like it's from so long ago. Who was it?_

Still, she did not turn.

After a long silence, long enough that she began to assume that he'd left, the man spoke again, quietly this time.

"You said you wanted to make him happy. He wouldn't be happy to see you like this."

A chill ran up her spine. She _knew_ that voice.

"I beg of you, you're getting sick." 

She felt him gripping her shoulders, and he practically pulled her off the ground, but he did it so gently, so easily, almost as if she were a light feather. She didn't understand. Her long dress felt so heavy on her. As her knees left the earth, she felt light-headed, like the drenched fabric of her dress was gravity itself, holding her down. _How?_ Turning around, she tried to see his face, but it was all a blur. The rain was getting into her eyes, she thought. But it wasn't the rain. The headache got worse as she tried to look at him.

"Hold on to me, please. Hermione." There was anxiety in his voice now. Frustration. He tried to help her stand, but her legs were giving in. He was the only thing keeping her upright, but still she felt the strong need to get out of his arms.

"I... I don't need..." _help._

She could barely raise her arms to push him away that she fell backwards when she tried. He caught her again, tightly this time. The reeling sensation was now so overpowering in his arms, she felt the world give. He smelled like warm citrus blooms and woody magnolias, she thought, as the world closed in on her, and she fell into a deep sleep.

The young man stood there for a moment, looking into the face of the woman that he once knew so well. She looked so unfamiliar now, so helpless and broken. In the past, he would have never doubted her ability to take care of herself. Comparing that person that he knew in better times to the drained woman in his arms, he knew that she needed help, even if she wouldn't agree.

A tender sadness touched his lips. He knew exactly how headstrong Hermione was.

"It's not going to be easy convincing you, is it?" he whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair off her face. 

But he can certainly try. And he will worry about the rest later.

So he picked her up and walked into the dark, towards the city lights, away from the tomb that she had watched day and night. The rain continued to pour. Leaves fell and stuck onto the dripping headstone. And the carvings read the name of the departed.

_IN LOVING MEMORY OF_

HARRY JAMES POTTER

_HUSBAND, FRIEND AND HERO_

_JULY 31 1980 - FEB 22 2005_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're here for Dramione, I'm guessing you don't mind the non-canon couplings ;) This is a two-part story bookended by a short introduction, interlude, and epilogue. I hope you enjoy it. Happy reading!


	2. Dreaming of Hogwarts

_"He was such an arrogant git. Really, I couldn't explain why I was attracted to him. At all!_ _I guess it bothered me that much, that I didn't understand this boy that I had to see every. single. day._ _Draco was already the embodiment of fascinating contradictions back then."_  
\- Hermione Potter née Granger

 **** In her unconscious state, Hermione dreamt a long dream, a dream that she hadn't had in forever. It was of the long gone past, a time when Lord Voldemort loomed over them, but had yet to fully return to power. She remembered that place fondly, her safe haven, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—

She should know better than to peek into his bedroom without permission, but curiosity got the better of her. He had never been as careless as to leaving his door unlocked.  _How does the pompous prat keep his room?_ _Immaculate like the way he dressed? Messy like that of a regular teenage boy?_ She was just about to give the door a light push, when a distrustfully cold voice stopped her in her tracks.

_"I'm pretty sure you know the school rules, Head Girl."_

Hermione Granger, Head Girl for three months now, spun around guiltily to face the owner of that voice. Her face turned red, when she found herself staring at the full frontal view of Draco Malfoy's bare chest. He must have just returned from the shower room. Water was still dripping from his front bangs. She cursed the towel wrapped around his waist. The fabric was a conspicuous shade of beige that resembled his natural skin tone. For a brief moment, Hermione had thought that the toned Quidditch player was completely and utterly naked. There was more than enough skin, regardless. The Slytherin boy was seventeen and only beginning to shed his adolescent figure, but he was already showing plenty of promise to grow into a fine-looking young man.

She had to admit that she liked what she saw, and Malfoy had an irresistibly confident aura to match. Cocky, really, but attractive nonetheless. She would have stared longer, except the pinprick was smirking at her now, his earlier frown completely wiped off his face.

_"Didn't think the snotty, prudish Granger would stare at me so openly,"_ he purred.

She couldn't have blushed more. _"You're so full of yourself,"_ she said quickly, looking away. It sounded too weak and unsure.

Malfoy snickered and adjusted the towel around his waist, _"I know what I saw, Granger."_

_"And I know what I like,"_ Hermione countered, visibly raising an eyebrow with a mock expression of distaste. _"You're too pale for my tastes."_

Malfoy laughed then.

_"I'd like to think that Quidditch has given me a nice tan in the last few years?"_

He took her bait easily. Maybe just a little too easily.

_"You take my words at face value,"_ Hermione responded with a sly little grin, _"I'd notice your apparently gorgeous tan if you were more impressionable as a human being."_

Malfoy only smirked at her play of words. He didn't even bother throwing a witty insult back at her. It was infuriating, how he was so sure of himself. Hermione knew he thought he was being gracious, since nothing could take away from the wide-eyed look she had already given him, when she first turned around.  She was still avoiding his open gaze after all.

And Draco enjoyed flaunting his bare skin at her. Her embarrassment was his greatest amusement. There weren't many girls in their year that would get embarrassed like she did. He'd walk around half-naked more often if it'd make her blush like this.

_"Honestly,"_ he laughed a little. _"You're seventeen already, Granger. Could it be possible that you haven't seen naked men before?"_

He liked to say her name with almost every sentence. Hermione wasn't sure if she liked it, but she certainly liked throwing it back at him.

_"Get it right,_ Malfoy. _I'm eighteen. And to answer your question: Yes, I have. Thank you for your concern."_ She was older than him, but she attended Hogwarts with their year group because she was born in September. Draco didn't seem interested in the details however. Hearing her age made him frown, and suddenly he was as cold as he was when he first caught her snooping.

_"Well, I would be pleased if you would get out of the way, and let me into my own room."_

Pushing her aside rather brashly, he closed his door with a slam. The sudden change in attitude left Hermione feeling rather surprised.

_What is it with him?_ She didn't understand. Sometimes, before she knew what was going on, their friendly banter would turn into an angry exchange of acid remarks. The only relief was that his bad temper was always brief, unlike Ron's prolonged tantrums that could strain his friendships terribly. On an occasional weekend, she might even dare to say that she preferred Malfoy as company to her hot-tempered friend.  It certainly helped that Malfoy had been curiously approachable of late. She noticed this change for the first time when she was struggling over a particularly complicated Potions problem set, just a month ago or so. She hadn't even murmured defeat when he came across their common study room to her desk.

_"You've had an ugly frown on your forehead for the past hour, Granger. It's beginning to really get on my nerves,"_ Malfoy had said then, dropping his Potions textbook next to her with a thud. Astonished by his sudden intrusion to her deep thoughts, she had glanced at the elegantly written solution on his scrolls first, before looking up at him with sheer curiosity. _"Why are you offering help?"_ she had asked. He just sneered.

_"I thought you'd appreciate it, so you can keep your pretty face instead."_

Again, she couldn't tell if it was an insult or a rare compliment. Intriguingly though, working on Slughorn's problem sets together became their routine since then. It was rather refreshing, considering how she'd become so used to Harry and Ron copying off of her hours of hard work. That was not to say that Malfoy didn't still take every opportunity to mock her, that time apparently for writing down "stupid, misguided solutions." But so long as he stayed clear of his racist insults, she didn't mind his bad mouth too much. His friendship during those precious hours was enough of a pleasant surprise.

And she liked him. It was a growing fact that she was still trying to grapple with. 

On other days though, she couldn't hate the prat less.

_"You sure about this?"_

_"No, but it has to be before summer. The underage magic loophole only works until then."_

Hermione was on an inspection round on Hogwarts grounds one night, when she heard voices coming from a school corridor. There was a strange smell too, and she located it to what should've been an empty classroom.

_"Shit, man ... can't you just stay here?"_

_"Are you kidding? My old man would come get me himself."_

Her eyes widened as she recognized that voice. She realized what that smell was too.

_"Draco Malfoy, what do you_ THINK _you are doing?"_

The bloody Head Boy, having a smoke! And with none other than Blaise Zabini, Slytherin's other resident prat.

Malfoy glanced around tiredly to Hermione's indignant outburst, as if he'd expected her to show up. And why wouldn't he? The Head Boy should know when his partner's shifts were. Ignoring her, Malfoy took a long drag before handing the smoke to his best friend, who took one himself and threw the still burning cigarette out the third floor window.

_"And don't just throw it out there!"_ She stalked up to them, utterly incredulous, and peered out over their shoulders to check that there was no tree or bush in sight to get accidentally burnt down by these careless delinquents. She did a quick _wingardium leviosa_ anyway, and hovered the dying cigarette to her hand.

_"What are you going to do, Granger?"_ Malfoy asked as he side-eyed her, snickering now at the intensity with which the young witch was crushing the flame out and holding up the offending object to her face for closer inspection. _"Rat on me?"_ he asked, turning to her with a mocking frown on his face, _"I suppose you do have to maintain your sham of a goody-two-shoes image."_

There it was, that signature annoyance in his voice that drove her nuts. This wasn't the friendly banter that she was starting to get accustomed to. Malfoy had gone back to being a real ass to her recently, and again, out of nowhere, as per usual. _Why is he like this?_

_"What do you mean?"_ she asked, genuinely irritated. "OF COURSE _Professor McGonagall is going to hear about this. Smoking is prohibited on Hogwarts grounds, never mind the fact that you're students_ — _HEAD BOY, might I add!"_ She shook the cigarette in his face, which Malfoy batted away in annoyance.

Zabini chuckled at that.

_"What's so funny now?"_ she spat, turning to address her other Slytherin co-year. _"You're in trouble too."_

_"Nothing,"_ Zabini drawled, stretching his limbs as he gave her a handsome smile of innocence. 

If there was anyone more infuriating than Malfoy, Zabini was near the top of her list, she just didn't know him as well. _"I just think it's funny that you boss Ma_ — _"_ he glanced at his friend mid-sentence, who was giving him a questioning look, and shrugged, _"Never mind."_

_"What,"_ Hermione pressed impatiently.

Malfoy offered his own interpretation. _"Blaise's just curious why you're so high up your horse with school rules, when Potty and Weasel break hundreds of them on the regular, with you,_ might I add _."_ That infuriating smirk of his had now returned to his face, and Hermione could feel a blush rising in her cheeks. God, he was referencing her own words in his rebuttal. _Why does it always feel like he's somewhere between mocking me and flirting with me?_

_"Let's see,"_ Malfoy began counting off on his fingers. _"There was that time I caught you at Hagrid's hut,"_ to which Hermione quickly responded by reminding him that he got detention for that too. _"That's irrelevant,"_ he scoffed. _"Let's not get into all the times Potty and Weasel_ — _"_ ( _"Stop calling them that!"_ she exclaimed exasperatedly.) _"_ — _snuck down to Hogsmeade after being explicitly forbidden from doing so, the last time was in early November. Oh, and just earlier this week,"_ he continued victoriously, as Hermione was now spewing incoherent counterarguments, _"when I saw you and Weasel snogging near the Kitchen after midnig_ — _"_

It was his turn to pause mid-sentence this time, like he hadn't intended to tell the story, and Hermione was the one raising an eyebrow this time.

_"Snogging who?"_

Malfoy seemed annoyed again. There was real venom in his voice now. _"Do you not keep track of who you snog,_ Granger? _I get that living with me makes it difficult for you to bring your boyfriends home every night, but still_ — _"_

She made an indignant low guttural sound to interrupt him. It was the most ridiculous thing that she had heard from him, ever. _"I haven't been snogging anyone lately,_ Malfoy," she emphasised his name in contest. _"And certainly not Ron, who finally plucked up the courage to ask his new girlfriend from Hufflepuff on a date. If that was really Ron that you saw, anyway."_

Though who would have mistaken that head of red hair for another, now that all the older Weasley boys were gone? No doubt, the Hufflepuff common room was near the kitchen.

Suddenly, Malfoy looked as if he'd pieced something together. He looked almost ... relieved? She didn't understand. Why was he not throwing insults at her now? Apparently he had assumed that she had a thing for Ron. And why had he not taken such a perfect opportunity, too, to humiliate Ron? He could've gotten into trouble for sneaking around late at night.

_"Are you alright?_ " Hermione had to ask instead, peering into his face. Malfoy suddenly looked strangely flustered. _"What do you mean, of course I'm alright."_

Zabini was the one with a smirk now, but Malfoy didn't seem to notice. _"Come on,"_ he said to his friend without warning, standing up and gathering his cloak without once making eye contact with Hermione. _"Let's go."_

_"Hey!"_ she called after him, holding up the crushed cigarette. _"We're not done here!"_ But Malfoy was out the door already.

_"Boy, he's not very self-aware, is he?"_ Zabini said to her as he followed suit and threw his cloak over his shoulder. Hermione turned to him, exasperated.

_"What do you mean?"_

Zabini regarded her for a long moment, a curious look in his eye. As if he understood something, he suddenly smiled and patted her gently on the shoulder. It didn't seem malicious, but Hermione was taken aback regardless by his tender gesture. She moved away from him promptly. _"It's true for you too, it seems,"_ Blaise said enigmatically. Then he left the room as well, trailing behind his already far gone friend.

And the Slytherin boys were gone. Neither of them made any sense to Hermione. She also did not end up telling McGonagall about the incident. Somehow, Malfoy decided not to be an arse to Ron, (and to whom he had thought was her.) An act of kindness for an act of kindness, right?

The next time she saw him, he was all snotty but pleasant again. So somehow he was back in a relatively good mood. She didn't get it. Draco Malfoy was just a conundrum. An unsolvable mystery in her day to day life, and she was both frustrated and intrigued by him. Something about his demeanor spoke of doubts hiding behind that overbearingly confident mask, a human side that he hadn't opened up for her to see, one that piqued her curiosity. But he was also just a big old prat, and a spoiled rich boy, and she was tired of his erratic mood changes. On more than one occasion though, Hermione suspected that Malfoy was only genuinely unkind to her when his thoughts returned to his family and Voldemort. But she wouldn't know for sure, would she? He never spoke about anything private beyond his school life.

She wished he did sometimes. Other times, she was a little scared to know.

_"—You know, this is entirely your fault,"_ Malfoy muttered through gritted teeth.

_"It's just one of our many responsibilities as head prefects,"_ Hermione responded teasingly, a finger firmly planted on the student directory as she wrote down the name onto her scroll. _Hamilton Hollow_ , she wrote with a sigh. The boy had broken the water pipes in the third-floor girl's bathroom for the fifth time now, flooding the corridors and leaving Moaning Myrtle cursing. As much as Hermione hated the idea of detention, it was time to put the mischievous brat on the list for Filch.

Malfoy only grumbled vaguely in response, so Hermione reminded him. _"You know we haven't sorted out these files like we promised we would last term, right?"_

_"Yes,"_ he answered derisively, as if she had just insulted his intelligence, _"but what is this business with reminding McGonagall of all people?"_ He briefly flung his quill into the ink pot, fuming. _"Now she's all over us—wait, no, she's all over ME,"_ he pointed at himself, _"since you're her favorite pet, Miss Goody-Two-Shoes Gryffindor, and she still suspects that I'm not capable of being Head Boy!"_

Hermione looked at him with an eyebrow raised. She'd never seen Malfoy this furious over something so trivial, not in many years anyway, and he was particularly edgy tonight. And she kept her opinion of his suitability of being Head Boy to herself, (note: cigarette incident,) but she noticed something else, too, as he picked up his quill again to write. He was squeezing his right arm tightly with his off hand.

_"Well,"_ she started again with an enduring smile, eyes still paying attention to his tightened fist. _"Dumbledore still thought you were the right candidate."_

Somehow she'd managed to be sarcastic without even trying. Malfoy grunted at her attempt to lift his mood, of course. He hated to think that the Headmaster actually thought of him highly, when he didn't think of the old wizard the same. His movements were careless and rough as he flipped through their student records. At some point, he reached into his robes and began scratching the same spot that he was gripping. Hermione couldn't help but ask.

_"Malfoy, what is wrong with your—"_

_"Ugh,"_ he groaned through his teeth as he spilt ink onto his scroll, smudging quite a few of the names he had just written down. _"UGH, I HATE THIS!"_ he cried out, very nearly tearing the scroll at his desk apart.

Hermione stood from her desk in alarm. Writing names off a directory cannot be this frustrating.

_"Malfoy, what's wrong?"_

_"NOTHING!"_ he snapped, dipping his pen into the ink pot again to rewrite the ones he'd just messed up.

But Hermione didn't back off.

_"Are you sure? What's up with your—"_ She touched the arm he was holding on to.

_"Get your hands off me,"_ he said coldly, flinging her hand away from him, and, in the process, spilling more ink onto the scroll.

_"Dammit..."_

_"Oh no, I'm sorry..."_ Hermione apologized as she looked down at the mess that they'd made. His cold words stung, but she was more concerned about him.

_"Really though,"_ she began again. This time, before he could protest, she'd grabbed his robe and flipped it away to reveal his sleeve, _"Were you bitten earlier today in Herbology? Those things are quite deadly, you know. Professor Sprouts said—"_

_"No, NO!"_ he shouted and pulled back, but it was too late. She had already held onto his shirt, and with his violent backing away, the sleeve tore with a sharp sound. Hermione's eyes went wide. Tattooed onto his inflamed forearm was a skull grinning back at her in black ink. It was fairly obvious that he had just received it.

_"Malfoy..."_

It was all that would come out. She didn't know what to say. He fixed his robe in place and stood up, obviously incensed.

_"Why do you have to be so—"_

Malfoy didn't finish his sentence; he looked like he didn't quite know what to say either. Instead, he threw his quill onto the desk, flung his robes over his shoulder and stormed out of the room.

For a long while, Hermione sat there, speechless and shellshocked. She had heard his footsteps as they disappeared around the corner, but she didn't fully comprehend that he'd left the room already. The skull was still grinning at her, laughing at her, mocking her. Staring down at the paperwork that they had been working on, she felt like she was the spilt ink, ruining everything.

It wasn't all her fault, she understood that perfectly well. He had taken a stance. A stance that she couldn't possibly condone. It was simply impossible. And he couldn't have hidden it from her forever either. But still... still... _what?_ There was nothing left to say.

Without even seeing him again the next day, she already knew. Draco Malfoy wouldn't speak to her as a friend ever again.


	3. A New Morning

_Ghost in the mirror_   
_I knew your face once, but now it's unclear_   
_And I can't feel my body now_   
_I separate from here and now_

_A drug and a dream_   
_A lost connection, oh, come back to me_   
_So I can feel alive again_   
_As soul and body try to mend…_

\- _Never Ending_ , Rihanna

Hermione opened her eyes. Soft morning sunlight gently swept over her face. It was comfortable. She didn't remember being comfortable since ... since so long ago. In the back of her mind, she could still hear the rain, pouring onto her, making sharp little sounds as the million raindrops hit the ground. The sun felt warm on her skin, but she still felt cold inside. The nausea had faded, but stayed the hollowness that filled her since the night when she held a motionless Harry in her arms, and cried.

He really was gone, wasn't he? A few months had gone by since his funeral, she remembered now, but months were nothing to adjust to a life without the man that she grew up with, grew fond of, and married eventually. She refused to go back to their home. If she ever did, the visits were short and quick. There was something about being at home that left her lonelier than she already was. Maybe it was the extra space she didn't need. Maybe it was the memories that came back to her when she saw the smallest things that belonged to him. She missed him, but she never said it out loud. She mourned his lost, but always on her own. She gave no one the chance to coax her away from Harry's grave. Just waited silently until they gave up. They always did.

_So why now? Why did I relent this time?_

She supposed fainting wasn't really her choice, but still. That man's words haunted her.

_"I thought you said you wanted to make him happy. He wouldn't be happy to see you like this."_

It was a very specific memory. She knew the conversation he was referring to, but something stopped her from remembering how it happened. _Why did I say that? Who was he?_ Her headache seemed to be returning.

_And where am I now?_

Realizing suddenly that she was not where she was before she had gone unconscious, Hermione tried to get up. She found her hands gripping onto silky white sheets, and sat up in confusion. The luxury of this bed was unfamiliar, and she surveyed the room.

Long forest green drapes hung from the ceiling and covered the edges of the bed that she was sitting in. The heavy drapes were pulled up onto the sides, allowing the sun to pour in. The bed was in the middle of the room, pressed up against the wall with the large window, which was on her left. A working desk stacked with books stood in front of the window, allowing for a breathtaking view of the coniferous forest below. Gingerly, she slid a finger through the paperwork spread across the desk, and saw that they were business related: real estate stocks, land use contracts, heirloom collection records - they all seemed well read into, and suggested the interest of a reasonably wealthy person. On the right side of the room was a large wardrobe embedded into the wall, and the door that led into the personal bathroom—

She knew this room, she realized. She had been here before. Hermione sank into the fluffed up pillow on her back, more confused than before.

_No, it can't be. How can it be? Must be someone else,_ she thought. _Must be someone also quite wealthy, someone who happened to come by when I fainted. They were just probably kind enough to take me in, and—_

The door she knew to lead into the bathroom opened. Steam began pouring into the room, and Draco Malfoy stepped out in a dark grey bathrobe, with its waistband loosely tied around his hip. He was rubbing water off his rather long hair with a towel, when he looked up and noticed that Hermione was awake. She felt like squirming back into the blankets. _It really was his room._

An awkward silence passed between them as they stared at each other.

He was the first to break the ice.

"Were you able to sleep well?"

She wasn't quite sure how to reply and nodded reflexively. Memories of the dream she had of him came flooding into her mind. As he walked up to her, her anxiety increased so that when he reached out to touch her face, she nearly pulled away. She felt her cheeks getting hot at his touch, and her eyes couldn't keep away from his bare chest that was slightly visible from underneath his heavy robes. She thought he was going to say something snarky, like he had in their school years, but he didn't. He was just checking her temperature.

"You don't seem to have a high fever anymore, which is good," he said, after a moment of thought. He touched his own forehead and nodded to himself. "Definitely better now."

"I had a fever?"

She closed her mouth immediately after she asked. Having not spoken in so long, her own voice sounded so loud to her.

Malfoy smiled then, for the first time since he'd entered the room. It was such a kind smile. Nothing like those arrogant smirks that he used to give her in school. His light grey eyes seemed to gleam slightly when he bent down and sat next to her on the bed. His damp blonde hair looked silvery in the sunlight. She hadn't seen him in so long, every detail fascinated her. Last night, she didn't see him clearly at all. His presence in her presence was bizarre.

"You were pretty bad last night," he answered gently as he took in her form. She still looked quite fatigued. "Burning up and all ... I hope you can excuse me. I had to undress and bathe you, you were soaked to the bon—"

He saw the shocked look on her face. "I'm sorry!" he quickly apologized, "If I had the choice, I wouldn't have done it without asking... but Symon was rather too small to do the job. Not that it would be fine if he did it either ... But, yes, I apologize."

She blushed deeply. He looked away for a moment before turning to look at her again. _You still looked beautiful like I remembered you._ The words were at the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them down instead, at least for now.

For a while, they both looked uncertain as to what to say, or do. Hermione looked down at her hands and unconsciously began to turn her wedding band from Harry. It had been a long time since they've actually sat down and talked like this. When was the last?

_"—You chose what you had to choose. I understand." She thought she saw a tear in his eye, but she wasn't sure. She had tears in hers. Her voice was trembling—_

"Sir?" A squeaky voice at the bedroom door brought Hermione back from her stupor.

She looked up and saw that a house elf was poking his head out from the foot of the door. He was about three feet tall, had the characteristic disk-sized eyeballs of a regular house elf and skin with a unique shade of pale green. There was a concerned look on his face—if Hermione could read an expression from it at all. House elves had very expressive facial expressions when they are shocked or excited, but generally speaking, they preferred showing them with their actions instead.

"Symon," Hermione gasped, suddenly recognizing him.

The house elf looked up at her with surprise.

"Mistress Hermione, you remembered Symon's name?"

Hermione smiled. House elves always spoke the way he did, always grateful for every little thing human beings did. It saddened her, but it also made them approachable. Symon was particularly sweet, she remembered that much.

"Would you like some breakfast, sir? And Mistress Hermione?" he asked, turning to his master and glancing back at her again eagerly. Symon pulled out what looked like a menu from his tailcoat.

There was something different about him that she began to notice. Instead of the usual rags that house elves wore, and Symon once wore, he was wearing a nice outfit that fit his size. In fact, it looked to her that the suit could have been made-to-fit.

"Yes, a continental breakfast would do. Will you bring us tea as well?" Draco requested.  "Thank you."

Hermione couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.

_Did he just thank Symon?_

As soon as the young house elf disapparated, she turned to Draco, barely hiding her disbelief. She wanted so badly for him to tell her that he had done exactly what she had guessed.

"Draco, please tell me you actually—"

"Hired him. Indeed," he completed her sentence for her, that trademark smirk of his now returning to his face. "Soon after I confirmed that the Dark Lord was dead and gone. He's been happy as a clam since." Draco chuckled.

She couldn't quite believe her ears. _Did Draco Malfoy just sympathize with a house elf?_ It was years ago, when Hermione had tried to convince him to at least hire Symon, instead of enslaving him. Of course, even as she had suggested it, she believed her advice would fall on empty ears. Since when had he listened to her?

_What in Merlin's name is happening?_

Leaning back into the pillow, Hermione held her forehead in shock. His confession was so discombobulating, she nearly forgot how strange it was for her to be there in the Malfoy Manor again.

Draco watched as she tried to process what he had just told her, looking slightly crestfallen. This shouldn't have been something that surprised her. _If only things went differently back then._

Gently, he took her hands and held them in his.

"I had to wait until now," he said softly, finally relieved that he could tell her everything.

"I didn't want Him to realize that I was still influenced by you."

She nodded, she understood. And they came back to her - her memories from three years ago. They spilt into her consciousness uncontrollably. Her research. Sullivan. Her job. Symon. Harry. Their marriage. And Draco, Draco Malfoy.


	4. PART I - HER ESPIONAGE: Hermione Potter née Granger

Three Years Ago: April 2002, Meeting with Director of the Office of Secrecy

Harry Potter was incredulous.

"Let me get this straight. You are asking ... _Are_ you asking my wife to _whore_ herself out to _..._ to _Draco Malfoy_?"

Hermione's stomach did a nauseating flip at her husband's choice of words.

Espionage wasn't news in their office, which was the equivalent of Secret Services at the Ministry of Magic, but they had never needed _her_ in such a role, never mind needing her to ... to what, _bed a suspected active Death Eater?_

She tried not to think about who it was too. No, her school year crush turned awkward non-friend is the last thing she'd wanted to encounter in this situation, but no one knew about that.

_No one needs to know about that._

She shot a nervous glance at Director Theodore Sullivan, who sat across from them without so much of a change in expression. Harry had been ranting for a good quarter hour now. It was surprising how long their boss had allowed it to go on. Sullivan was not a man who normally tolerated emotional display from his subordinates.

"I understand your frustrations, Potter," he finally said. 

Harry took the cue to clamp his mouth shut, momentarily anyway. Hermione, too, quickly clasped her hands together in her lap. She hoped they didn't notice how she had been turning her wedding band on her hand in a state of unease.

"But I ask you to see sense," Sullivan continued, "your wife has all the qualifications to extract the information we need." Hermione noticed that he did not deny Harry's assertions about the potentially sexual nature of her assignment. She couldn't let him continue anymore without interrupting.

"But _where_ is the sense in this?" she blurted out.

Impatience began to etch across Sullivan's face. Hermione continued anyway.  "If we understand you correctly, you are asking for something incredibly invasive and personal of me. And I am hardly spy materia—" 

Sullivan shushed her before she could go on. She almost growled under her breath.  _How dare he!_

She wasn't daft enough to not notice that this entire time, Sullivan was addressing Harry, and Harry only. And now he was shushing her when she'd barely said her piece. Was this meeting not about her? _No._  The whole point was to let Harry Potter, _The Boy Who Lived,_ vent so he would not make a scene in public later. Sullivan didn't really want _her_ input, and certainly not _her_ emotional tantrum, (which she had yet to even lay bare!) Sitting back into her seat, she fumed as the tall brooding man across from them raised an eyebrow, as if to dare her to speak again. She couldn't help but take the bait. Parting her lips slowly, she drawled, defiance barely concealed.

"Go on, sir. I'm listening."

Blaise Zabini would be proud of her.

The subtle twitch in Sullivan's eyebrow was satisfying enough for now. She didn't care if her boss didn't like her. He never really did to begin with. She knew that the man called her "that intellectual woman" behind her back, as if it weren't supposed to be a compliment. She was _too hard to read._ _Too sure of herself._ And the subtext: Too overqualified for a woman. _Well, screw him and his opinions._ After all, she'd dealt with the Know-It-All badge of honour all her life. Hell, even Ron still joked about it whenever he had a chance. _Sod them all._

"So, what I was going to say," Sullivan now continued as if her objection wasn't an issue, and again, not addressing her, "was that we are all aware of your wife's expertise in house elves sociology."

At that, Hermione raised a meaningful eyebrow at him. He actually blushed a little. _Hah. Does he know how to be ashamed after all?_

"Well..." he corrected, "by _all_ , I meant the staff in our office."

_No thanks to you._

Hermione's lips stayed pursed. She didn't want to wallow on her bitterness anymore. Her employment at the Ministry had been extremely restrictive to her research career, but she chose her battles, and here she was.

"We need someone with excellent field combat skills as well," Sullivan was still persuading her unconvinced husband. At that comment, Harry took his glasses off and sighed. His brows furrowed as he cleaned the lens a little too vigorously with the edge of his shirt. Hermione knew that habit all too well - he didn't like where this was going.

"You must remember that her scores in mandatory training were off the charts, and surely you know that Auror Colin had recommended that she test to join your special auror unit?"

Now, this comment piqued her curiosity. Glancing at her husband, she found that he was avoiding her questioning stare. _Sullivan isn't lying then._ But why had she not heard of this until now? Harry wasted no time to retort and misdirect.

"Yes, sir, but that doesn't mean—"

"Look, Potter, I am sure with a little refresher that she can handle herself. And we need her. As I've explained earlier, it's become clear—"

"That house elves are not only slaves for the elite, but also messengers and spies for Dark Alliance members, yes, yes," Harry cut in, still considerably holding back the temper that he had shown earlier. "I've read Hermione's dissertation, sir, but—"

"Exactly," Sullivan interrupted, taking Harry's agreement as the cue to say, "and yet you still refuse to see that she is perfectly suited for the role."

"But this espionage is FUNDAMENTALLY unnecessary!"

All cool was lost. Harry was out of his seat again, pacing the room in a frenzy, arms in the air. Hermione could almost see the angsty teenage boy that she remembered from their Hogwarts years.

"Never mind that you're asking Hermione to _seduce_ Malfoy in the process," he seethed, "but we have intelligence from other sources— _and Colin can really vouch for this!_ "

He slammed an angry fist on Sullivan's hardwood desk, but then quickly realised that he was crossing a line and retracted his hand. "I'm sorry, but," he gathered his composure again, "my point is, we'll be able to arrest these Dark Lord heretics next month without relying on such high-risk intelligence."

His voice cracked in frustration. "How is it necessary to ... to have Hermione do _this_?"

Harry couldn't even say what it was that she would have to do anymore. And Hermione sensed that he didn't want her input in this right now. Not that Sullivan wanted her opinion anyway, even though he sure surprised her with a couple compliments thrown in there about her capacity for combat.

Regardless, she wasn't happy with the way that Harry was defending her by playing down her research results. She only let Harry continue, because she agreed with him at a fundamental level: This old-school espionage attempt was ridiculous, amateur even. But she couldn't deny that Sullivan's proposition intrigued her scholarly curiosity, and she began to wonder if _this_ was his ploy too all along.

It was why she ended up in the Office of Secrecy in the first place: Hermione had been an advocate for house elf sovereignty since her Hogwarts years. Only until several months ago, she had been tirelessly working towards an advanced degree in Law, specialising in Wizarding and Magical Creature rights, so she could one day work with the Wizengamot to get rid of the archaic, oppressive injustice against house elves.

It was _her_ theory that house elves' lack of rights and sworn networks of secrecy are significant loopholes in the legal system, preventing the Ministry from regulating business transactions between the wealthy elite. It was _her_ view that Death Eaters could easily and have certainly used this network to their benefit in the last war. 

Instead of giving her the degree, however, the Wizarding Examination Authority deemed her thesis ("House Elves: Imprisonment for Life and Their Roles in Politics") _TOO SENSITIVE INFORMATION_ (stamped on the front cover, no less). She had objected the censorship fiercely, even attempted to call for a public hearing, but the very institution that she wished to work for pulled the strings and gave her an ultimatum: Either she worked under Sullivan and the Office of Secrecy, provided her expertise to the war attempt, or she does no research at all.

So she begrudgingly ended up in an entirely unexpected section of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and as an Unspeakable employee no less. Unless her secret keeper (that would be Harry) revealed her employment status, for anyone else's concern, Hermione was a stay-at-home wife.

She almost chuckled at that thought.

_Hermione Granger? First in class, workaholic Hermione Granger? A housewife?_ What a joke.

But that was that. She would have to live with the indignity if she wanted to continue working on what she cared about most, in whatever shape or form. "Until the war is over," she told herself, as she often did. She will bear it until the war was over.

It took her a moment to calm her long pent up anger, so much so that she had missed much of the conversation between Harry and Sullivan.

"But Potter, we need evidence that he is actually continuing his father's legacy."

So they were speaking about Draco Malfoy now.

"He took the Dark Mark in his seventh year, sir," Harry said gravely. "Hermione can attest to that."

At that, he glanced at her for some support, but Hermione was not paying attention. With her eyes cast down to her ring finger again, her thoughts went to how she had discovered the still inflamed tattoo on Malfoy's forearm. Even now, she could still recall in vivid detail the indescribable anger and confusion in his pale grey eyes. Four years on, she was still not sure what to make of Malfoy's decision to take the mark.

_Had our friendship meant nothing to you?_

It felt as though she had postponed asking him that question, all this time, and now it was finally catching up to her.

But her mission wasn't going to be about catching up, was it?

"Is it not enough that we know for sure that he had been initiated?" Harry implored.

"Swearing allegiance isn't enough to get someone thrown into Azkaban," Sullivan responded. "You should know that. Underaged crime also carries a far lighter sentence. We need something more current.”

Hermione shuddered. Right. That was the goal. To send Malfoy to Azkaban. _Merlin, help me. How will I do this?_

#

There was nothing to say on the way back to their respective rooms - Harry to his with his aurors, and Hermione to her research center. He avoided looking at her. She kept her eyes on her feet as they walked through the hallways. What were they to say anyway? Their boss had given them the ultimatum, warning that anything Harry did to obstruct Hermione's assignment would end both their contracts with the Ministry. Hermione didn't say anything to that, and Harry understood why. Harry didn't object either, not after what Sullivan told him after dismissing Hermione for a quick private conversation.

_"You know she can walk around in broad daylight with all those dangerous questions and knowledge about house elves in her head because we stopped her research from going public, right?"_

Well, yes. If there was anyone who wasn't afraid to pursue the evidence, even when it would paint a large target on her head for purist scumbag Death Eaters everywhere, it was Hermione. Harry had not objected to Sullivan essentially taking her into custody specifically because they promised it would be safer for her. What was the point though, if they were going to send her off to be a field agent after all? 

Harry turned the corner into his office without saying a word. He knew his wife was staring at him, almost reaching out to him to say something. But say what? Sorry? She didn't get herself into this. As he busied himself with work for the rest of the afternoon, he tried to suppress the thought that kept haunting him.

_Hermione had a crush on Malfoy._

He never forgot that night in their last year at Hogwarts, when she came crying to him because Malfoy received his Dark Mark. It was baffling at the time. Harry had seen the Dark Mark coming. Ron had seen it coming. How could Hermione, _of all people,_ had possibly missed the signs? After all those years of bullying? Knowing Lucius was an unrepentant Death Eater?

He had hated the implications of her distress, and her blindness. It was unnerving enough that she had become reasonably amicable with the Slytherin ferret, who continued to taunt him through his entire Hogwarts career. To think that she had more than friendly feelings for him was gut-churning.

And to his surprise, Harry wasn't just concerned for Hermione as a friend. No, he was jealous. Jealous that she had become emotionally attached to his insufferable school year nemesis.

_But it was so long ago._

He had been sure that he was over it. Hermione certainly seemed over it. She never once mentioned Malfoy in the last four years. While Ron went on to marry his Hufflepuff girlfriend, they eventually decided to become life partners. It was one of the most amazing things that happened to Harry ever, to have someone to call family.

But there was always the "what if" question. What if she still liked him? What if Malfoy had feelings for her too?

_And why stir all of that up now?_

Maybe, just maybe, Sullivan knew all of this. Merlin knows how, and he was sure he was just paranoid, but the thought certainly didn't escape Harry's mind.

#

Back in her office, Hermione ran a tired hand through her tangled tresses as she attempted to focus on the case files that Sullivan had handed her. In her flustered state of mind, her elbow bumped into her neatly organised piles of notes, and the papers cascaded to the floor. She swore out loud.

Was it not enough that he had occupied her thoughts through most of her last year at Hogwarts, while they continued to ignore each other's existence? This assignment was beyond torture, and she was genuinely perturbed by how much she still cared about the Slytherin Head Boy.

_Draco Malfoy._ He was surely not much of a boy anymore. When was the last time that she had seen him? Not since they graduated. What was he then, eighteen? Seventeen? It took her a moment to realize how young they were back then. Harry had shed his lankiness as a teenager in the past couple of years, and so had Ron. They had filled out, grown wider shoulders, and now have a lot more facial hair. Ron sported a bit of a beard these days, and Harry's five o'clock shadow can be quite charming. Malfoy, too, must be a full-grown man by now. She blushed a little, realising what she was imagining.

_Really, what would he say if he knew what you were thinking just now?_

Probably sneer at her in disgust. Certainly not offer her the same playful banter like in the old days.

It hadn't been much of a friendship yet, she admitted, but what they had was significant to her, special, even. He would have been her first Slytherin friend, and a pretty surprising one at that, considering their history. But she had welcomed it. She had thought that maybe he had welcomed it, too. But then, from out of nowhere, an infinite distance stood between them.

_But Sullivan thinks I can seduce him into revealing his family's secrets AND You-Know-Who's!_

It was laughable. She couldn't imagine meeting Malfoy today, much less meeting his house elf, who was supposed to spill _his_ secrets as well. Where would she meet them anyway? At the Malfoy Manor? She scoffed out loud. She wouldn't even stand a chance at having a civil conversation with Malfoy, much less seducing him.

_Sullivan is out of his mind._

With that final thought, she flicked her wand to undo the mess on the floor, cleared her work desk, and got ready to leave for home. It was only mid afternoon, and she rarely ever played hooky, but there really was no point staying at work. Not when her mind was elsewhere. As she got her things together, her thoughts went back to how insensitive and forceful Sullivan was to her at the meeting, not giving her even half the amount of decency that he showed Harry and his concerns for _his wife._

Hermione couldn't tell you how badly she wanted to strangle the chauvinistic pig. (Very much so.)

Her heart sank at the sight of the gloomy streets in Diagon Alley as she left the Ministry of Magic. It still disheartened her that so many stores were closed, temporarily or permanently. The clouds above were thick and dark. These alleyways certainly had never looked so cheerless in the past.

"This war really needs to end," Hermione said to herself as she zipped up her coat and stepped into the drizzling rain. Even as she fumed over the injustice of her position, she had to admit that she was willing to do her part for the greater cause. And this absurdly outdated espionage idea might just be the opportunity she needed to test her theories about house elves in elite families as well.

_I guess I'll think about how viable it all is after looking over the rest of Sullivan's files tomorrow._

Workaholic Hermione was still workaholic Hermione.

#

The next morning, she woke up groggy and listless. It didn't feel like she had any sleep at all. Rolling over to her side, she felt the bed and knew from experience that Harry hadn't come home the night before. Not that this was anything new. As an auror working on highly confidential cases, he often had to respond to distress calls around town in the middle of the night. At times, he wouldn't come home for days. He likely went straight back to work again.

Looking at the clock, she saw that she could still catch him before his regular auror morning briefing. Maybe have a short conversation, if anything. So Hermione quickly got dressed and left for the office too, thinking that she'd see Harry the first thing. Instead, she found a paper plane pinned to her door. She was to report to Auror Colin's office immediately upon arrival. Talking with her husband would have to wait.

It took her all but five minutes to get to Colin's door. She was just about to knock, when a cool, detached voice came from within.

"Come in."

_How unnerving._

She glanced at the pristine white door once again before pulling it open and going in as requested. "I was not aware that we could set up surveillance on our doors, sir," she said matter-of-factly.

The chief auror looked as though he was about to crack a smile, but instead nodded her to a chair. "You couldn't. I can," he said, just as matter-of-factly. _Point taken,_ Hermione thought to herself, as she sank into the seat.

"And please, just call me Charles from now on," he added, "Especially while we're working in the field. I prefer to keep a low profile out there."

She understood that Charles was not his real name. In fact, she doubted that she had ever known Auror Colin's first name, even though she knew him as Harry's field commander for a long time now.

She knew too that he ran the Office of Secrecy Special Auror Unit (S.A.U.) with an iron fist. And while she disliked most of her Ministry employers, she respected what she knew of this stoic man, for he was firm, but not cruel. He also rarely complimented anyone, and so any praise that came from him was a big deal. Needless to say, Sullivan's disclosure about his opinion of her combat potential had surprised her quite a bit yesterday.

"Charles" did not speak for a while, surveying her face with steady eyes. It made Hermione somewhat uncomfortable, but feeling that he was deciding on something, she stayed silent and waited. _Is he trying to figure out how to convince me?_

"Personally, I don't see a lot of success coming out of this mission," he finally spoke. Hermione didn't know how to react. It was surprising to hear such words from Sullivan's closest subordinate.

"Do you?" he asked her pointedly.

Now that was a question that she had not expected from him either. There was much she had to learn about him, if they were really going to work together now.

"No," she answered honestly. He nodded for her to go on. Gaining some courage at that, she continued, "Most of all because of my ... _extracurricular activities_ during my Hogwarts years, if you will."

Charles snorted lightly. "If you can call it that."

Hermione grinned a little. "I'm not sure how I would engage with Draco Malfoy without raising suspicion when my husband and I are public enemies of the Dark Lord."

No, she couldn't see how there was space for stealth in this.

Charles looked deep in thought. His eyes never left hers, as if he were surveying her inner mind. It certainly felt like he was. Hermione felt the need to keep her former crush out of her mind, as though if she pondered upon Malfoy any longer, Charles would see right through her.

"And your knowledge of house elves?"

Hermione sighed inwardly. Another colleague who was about to dismiss her work for nonsense. But before she could give him a House Elves Sociology 101, Charles spoke, as if to counter her assumptions about him.

“You're tenacious and tactful enough to successfully interview the most reclusive informants at Hogwarts, and untangle their complicated heritage and magical law histories. I understand a lot of them have severe symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, which must have made an ethnographic study like yours supremely difficult, but you persevered anyway. And you learned to converse entirely in Elfin, did you not? I don’t recall there being any other living expert in the language?” Everything he was saying was rhetorical, which surprised her again.

She was about to ask if Harry had given him a summary of her work, when she thought about the language that Charles was using. She had used some of those exact terms at one point, in writing.

"Have you read my dissertation?"

Charles raised one eyebrow, as if to say, _Of course I have._ Hermione blushed at that, feeling apologetic for assuming the worst of him. But then again, he was the first person that she had met (aside from Harry, but he doesn't count!) in the office, who had actually read her work. She was a consultant for them, but an unwelcome one at best. Aurors weren't exactly fond of her bookish type.

Dismissing her apology as unnecessary, Charles pulled out a heavy folder from his desk and slid it across to her. "One of the problems my team faced during our investigations of the Dark Alliance was these codes that they were using." He pointed out the relevant files to her, which were records of Death Eater clandestine meeting locations that the Office of Secrecy aurors had been able to decipher in the past. "Turns out," and he didn't really need to say more, as Hermione could read Elfin with ease. "It's phonetically written in Elfin, but spells out to English," she completed his sentence for him, eyes lighting up with excitement. Charles nodded satisfactorily and showed her another set of memos.

"And sometimes, they wrote in English to spell out Elfin words instead. All these cases involved highly sensitive transactions. I suspect that you're right about house elves being the primary communicators."

Hermione beamed with pride at that.

"Your phonetic guide was very helpful," he added, now pulling out a slightly tattered copy of her dissertation that Hermione had not noticed was on his bookshelf. "It must have taken you a long time to come up with a transliteration."

It did. Hermione had to work through a lot of it with the assistance of Hogwarts house elves, and mostly on her own. Witches and wizards were not known to spend their careers learning languages of exploited beings.

"Are you suggesting," she began to grasp his train of thoughts. "That I would be a useful field agent?"

It was the first time that Charles had truly cracked a smile in their conversation. "What makes you think you could be a field agent with my unit, Potter?"

"My scores were off the charts, weren't they?"

There was no boasting in her tone, just a confirmation of veracity. Charles' smile grew just a little more, before he stored it away. Hermione made an aside to herself that he was quite charming when he smiled.

"Indeed," he answered, turning away to his bookshelf and putting her dissertation back where he had it, and pulling open another drawer. "Though I had thought Potter, and I mean Harry, had kept that information from you."

Hermione shrugged, "he did." Charles had his back to her, but looked as though he was pausing for a moment of thought.

"Sullivan tried to convince him," he said in that all knowing tone as he pulled out a sheet of paper from the drawer. And when Hermione nodded with her eyes cast down, he asked, side-glancing at her, “Not very convincing, was he?"

Hermione smiled. "No."

"Well," Charles changed his tone as he sat back in his seat. It was subtle, but Hermione could tell that he wanted to get to the point. Maybe he really could read minds. He betrayed no hint of hearing that last thought though.

"As I said at the beginning, I don't see a lot coming out of this mission. And as you can tell by now, it has nothing to do with my faith in your abilities, your training scores and research have demonstrated as much." Hermione blushed at his words again. It made her uneasy how this man could so easily make her feel significant. _Have I been starving for even a teeny bit of recognition for so long?_

"Regardless, I think we can still test the waters, and set things up so your encounter with Malfoy will seem coincidental. You should know, I believe, that _Jupiter_ is opening tonight?" Charles said as he handed a flyer to her. 

Hermione hesitated as she looked down at the advertisement for the Opera House play.

She certainly knew about it. That flyer had been posted around the Ministry in recent months. The Arts and Culture Department had been busily organising the play for months now, hoping it would cheer people up in this depressing atmosphere. She had heard that ticket sales weren't ideal, but what can you expect in this political climate? They weren't in outright war, but tension was building, and Death Eater incidents weren't rare. There was a reason why so many stores on Diagon Alley had closed for good.

"I have heard of it," she responded tentatively. 

"Good. So it's all set up," Charles looked satisfied, there was a conniving half-grin on his face. It wasn't as charming this time.

_Wait, so what is set up?_

"You will be there alone, supposedly because your husband is too busy. And we will, in fact, make sure that he is busy, so you would not be lying."

Hermione began to panic.

"We've booked a seat for you within Draco Malfoy's vision. I'll be briefing a few other personnels to ensure he notices you. This afternoon, I'd like you to go through some basic combat training. I'll get someone to duel with you, just as a refresher, and as for this evening," he added, eyeing her messy hair bun and the drab grey suit that she was wearing. She was admittedly a little disheveled today, with how little time she had to get ready that morning, but she couldn't explain that to Charles now.

"You'll be meeting my assistant to dress up. We'll make sure he _notices_ you too."

Hermione was dumbfounded. She couldn't believe it. It was starting already.


	5. Draco Malfoy

**** "May I?"

There was an unmistakable hint of anxiety in the elderly witch's voice, and it did not escape the notice of the young man across the counter. 

He nodded in response, and took off his long black overcoat wordlessly, removing a pair of theatre binoculars and some valuables from the pockets. As he handed the folded coat to her, his platinum blonde hair cascaded over his well defined facial features, and he saw how fear swept across her face when their eyes met.

The cloak lady didn't say another word before quickly disappearing into the room behind her.

He didn't even have a chance to thank her.

Looking down at the counter where she had hastily left him a tag to later retrieve his outerwear, the man sighed and swept his loose locks over an ear.

_Can I not go a day without scaring some old lady off?_ He wondered silently. He was just about to ask her for a pamphlet for  _Jupiter_ , but it didn't look like she would be back any time soon. A tired furrow formed between his eyebrows as he looked over the counter and found what he was looking for. Glancing at the firmly closed door behind the counter one last time, he slipped a hand over it and took a leaflet for himself.

_What was it that was so apprehensive anyway?_ He thought as he walked away. All she was doing was hanging his coat. An offer.

Did he seem like he would lash out any moment?

Not that Draco Malfoy needed anyone to tell him what it was about exactly.  Unprovoked verbal whiplash was the kind of thing his father would have given anyone looking that timid.

But Lucius was an impatient fool. 

When he was alive anyway.

Draco understood that it wasn't just about his late father's reputation. It was his whole lineage, from the Malfoys, the Blacks, to the Lestranges. You didn't need to be out-and-out involved in the war to know that nearly all of his close relatives were suspected Death Eaters, including himself. Good enough reason to squirm in his presence, he supposed.

But this was precisely the thought that he had wanted to get away from tonight. Draco hated crowded events, and he would normally never go to an opera premiere, even when invited. It was the sort of thing his mother Narcissa would have wanted to tag along to, and Draco was reaching that age where he wished he was escorting someone else instead. As of right now though, Draco needed a break from all his routines. His family's expectations, and from work— _especially_ work. No, Draco wasn't going to let a trivial interaction with the cloakroom clerk ruin his rare moment of repose.

Shoving the coat tag into his pants trousers, he pulled out his ticket and  found his way to the second mezzanine, his favorite floor. Unlike the floor seats, where he was bound to bump into someone who would want to make small talk with him, the upper floors had some privacy. He came to the door of his booth at the end of a thickly carpeted corridor, and entered to find that it was still empty. He smiled in relief. This quiet time alone was important to him. No one to disturb him. Nobody asking him for offers. Nobody controlling his life. Things had changed since his father's untimely death only a few months earlier, but that was another thought that Draco did not want to dwell on right now. He sat down in his front row seat, and began to read the event leaflet thoroughly. He was absorbed in the details of the director's CV, when he heard high-pitched voices exchanging greetings below. 

_"You look WONDERFUL tonight, dahling!"_

_"Oh, you look FABULOUS too, sweetie. Did you get your hair done at Burkes?"_

Deeply annoyed, he looked over the railings to see if he recognized the owners of those voices. Why couldn't they keep their conversations to themselves? 

He saw that the opera house was starting to fill up, and quickly identified Mrs. Parkinson and Lady Antoinette, who were still harping away. Why was he not surprised? Loud insufferable women they were.

They were also wives of his late father's cronies, so it would be best to ignore them. Draco was going to quickly look away, in case they noticed him and— _oh, the horror_ —started shouting up to him to say hello. But someone else caught his eye.

One mezzanine below him was a young woman whom he thought he recognised. Her features were familiar from somewhere deep in his memories, but they were hard to pinpoint. Forgetting about the pamphlet, he pulled out his theatre binoculars to take a closer look. _Not creepy at all,_ he thought to himself. But he was curious, and Draco Malfoy wasn't one to leave a curious thought alone. 

He observed her dark brown hair, which was pulled into an elaborate twist on the back of her head, and saw the stray strands of wavy hair that hung from the sides of her face down her slender shoulders. Her strapless dark green dress complimented her skin tone well. _Simple, but graceful,_ he noted. He also noticed the way that she people-watched, with one hand resting on the railing, eyes following every motion of the people down below. It looked as if she were making note of everything in minute detail, analysing their behavior. At the same time, there was calmness in her composure, one that he was familiar with.

_Who was she?_

Draco knew those eyes. Those eyes belonged to someone whom he had respected, someone who had a penchant for making astute observations, and pointing them out, rather infuriatingly so. And then she turned around, as if to the sound of someone entering her booth - indeed, an old couple appeared into Draco's view, though she did not seem to know them. The couple sat down on the other end of her booth. No, this attractive witch seemed to be alone tonight. He watched as she turned away again, looking somewhat forlorn.

It suddenly hit him who she was. 

_Hermione Granger._ How long had it been since he had last seen her? Probably at graduation. He still remembered how she had looked that night, wearing a champagne white halter-neck dress that went down to her knees. Her long bangs were pulled to the back of her head neatly, and her wavy hair flowed around her shoulders. She had a huge smile on her face when she went on stage, to receive her diploma and the Outstanding NEWT Recipient Award for their cohort. Draco hated to admit it, but she truly was one of the few at Hogwarts who were up to his academic standards.

Some would be surprised to learn that Draco had been a fairly brilliant student, occasional (okay, not so occasional) mischief aside. And though he cannot be sure how much Lucius got involved in the process for him to become Head Boy, Draco was certain that he had earned his position within reason. 

It used to hurt his self-esteem, wondering if his father had interfered in the process. 

Granger though, had no such privileges. She got there purely through hard work. And she was incredibly judicious, not to mention rather witty-mouthed. He had liked that about her. Admittedly, he used to hate her guts. She was a muggle-born, who excelled in almost everything he was good at, AND she was that big-headed Potter's best friend. The idea of her existence offended him, and Malfoy family prejudices certainly did not help.

But then they became Head Prefects together, and he was forced to see her every day. Eventually, respect replaced jealousy. He had even quite enjoyed the playful banters that they had every day. Draco was almost positive that she had a crush on him too, except he soon learned that she was dating Potter.

_Well, that was after she had discovered your Dark Mark, remember?_

No, she was so righteous. There was no way she would have fallen for him after that.

Hermione Granger. What was she doing alone at an opera? Draco remembered reading in the Daily Prophet that she had married Potter a year or so ago. Where was that bastard husband of hers that kept getting in his way at work?  Auror Potter was infamous in his world - for busting all his Death Eater business partners, of course. Luckily, Draco had so far not been busted for anything. He was very careful with not doing anything illegal with his public business partners. Always insisted to pay everything, full fee, and took no bribes. While his shady transactions ... well, he shared that information with no one.

Realizing that he was thinking about work again, Draco lowered his binoculars and briefly closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. He was there to enjoy an opera, not mull over work. _Damned work that requires skills in cheating, lying, and hiding!_  He was sick of it. For once, he wanted to enjoy himself. As he opened his eyes again, he saw that his newly found source of enjoyment had sat down as the lights started to dim. A long-forgotten crush, appearing out of nowhere.

_This could be interesting._

Before he could decide what he wanted to do about the coincidence, the lights went out completely, and a spotlight shown on the orchestra, which began to play a grand opening. For the rest of the show, Draco tried to focus on the play, but his thoughts kept turning back to the beautiful woman he couldn't see now. Consequently, he was sorely disappointed when the lights came on again at the end of the show, and she was already gone.

#

_Where did she go?_

As he left his booth, Draco found that he was taken aback by how much it bothered him that she was nowhere to be found. Fine, he had a crush for her in school. So he was a little disappointed. He would have really enjoyed surprising her, maybe giving her a snide cheeky remark, but it really was no big deal that she was gone already.

What if she was just a fickle of his imagination? As that thought slowly came over him, he exhaled an irritated sigh. _You're just tired._

At the cloak room, the old lady looked terrified again. She already had his coat ready before he had even arrived. But Draco did not even seem to notice her thoughtfulness, or her fear. He was too absorbed by the possibility that his brains were just playing games with him. It took him no time to get outside, which rather surprised him. He had imagined the opera house to be more crowded, and had originally been ready to take a side door using his family privileges. Subconsciously, he had gone down the route that he thought might let him bump into Granger.

He scowled at that thought. This was getting embarrassing.

He broke out of his trance when he realized that he had stepped on a puddle outside the opera house. Raindrops blurred his vision slightly, and the wind blew strands of his hair onto his face. Only then did he notice the pouring rain. It wasn't a problem for him though. His carriage was waiting right around the corner.

The horseman was already coming over. Draco gave his chauffeur a nod as the carriage stopped in front of him, and placed a hand on the door. It was only then that he noticed the lady standing not too far away from him. That long rich green dress. Her wavy brown hair. Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Hermione Granger's hair was slightly wet, and her dark brown eyes were filled with - awe? Or was she scared? He was so used to people looking terrified of him by now. Draco wasn't sure. It seemed like she was just as caught unawares as he was.

He saw her lips mouth his name wordlessly, and he smirked.

_Merlin, that trademark smirk._ It was already driving Hermione insane, even though she did quite a remarkable job of keeping her feelings inside. Her heart was beating so furiously against her chest. She had no idea how she should act. Was she nervous because of the task at hand, or because Malfoy had grown to become such a... _No._ She refused to admit how attractive he had become. And she was not sure how to start a conversation with him. She needed to somehow befriend him, right?

It was surprising enough how simple it was to get to this point. Charles had instructed her to just sit back and enjoy the show, to not even make notice of Draco Malfoy, even though she knew perfectly well where his seat would be. So she made a point not to make eye contact with him. But then Charles also told her to leave before the lights came on, and wait outside.

Hermione wasn't positive that he could find her then. As sparse as the attendance was, there were still many people leaving the show. Then it started raining, and people scrambled for a carriage home. Some simply took the risk and disapparated, even though heavy rain could significantly derail less experienced users. Hermione didn't particularly enjoy apparition, but she could certainly pull it off. Right now though, her goal was to bump into her target. And there he was, standing so close to her that, for a moment, it was a wonder how he had not even noticed her.

But Draco certainly noticed her.

"Well, well, Hermione Granger. What a coincidence," he said as he stepped off his carriage and walked up to her. He sounded so fake even to himself, he nearly laughed out loud.

_As if I hadn't noticed you earlier, Granger. And you look so surprised to see me._

"It's been... it's been a while, Malfoy," she mumbled, her eyes shifting from his face to her hands, which were clasped together on her purse. She certainly was taken aback when their eyes met, but she had also noticed him long before he had noticed her. _Do I look surprised enough?_

"How have you been?" he asked warmly, "At the opera alone tonight?"

Hermione smiled a small smile and looked up to face him. That was an easier question. She'd rehearsed that one a few times. "I've been doing well, thank you. Harry ... he couldn't come today. His schedule tends to be a little hectic."

As soon as she said it, she wondered if it was a bad idea to mention her husband but she had to have a logical explanation for why she was out on a Saturday night, alone. She decided to get that out of the way anyway - Malfoy couldn't possibly not know about her marriage with Harry, or what he did for a living. The Daily Prophet never left The Boy Who Lived alone.

But maybe it was a dumb move. Malfoy seemed a little taken aback, or maybe she had imagined it, because when he spoke again he didn't show a hint of unpleasantness.

"Right, you married each other. I'm sorry I haven't been able to congratulate you."

She was a little disappointed, a little relieved. There goes the possibility that he ever had a crush on her. Certainly not anymore, if he ever did. Why would he congratulate her otherwise? He never even liked Harry very much.

_Has he grown out of their childish rivalry finally?_ She wondered. Or maybe he just finally learned to be civilized.

And yet, he was gazing at her in such a way that she couldn't help but notice the double entendre in his next words.

"My, you are quite ... _drenched,_ Granger."

The way he said those words. She felt something akin to butterflies in her stomach. And he still called her by her maiden name, right after speaking about her wedlock to Harry. Then there was that alluring twinkle in his eye as he quickly glanced at her from head to toe.

"So are you," she replied sheepishly, her eyes following the raindrops that dripped slowly from strands of his ice blonde hair. Merlin, he is handsome. She couldn't deny it anymore. Draco too looked down to check on his robes and ran a hand through his hair, noting that she was, indeed, correct: He was quite thoroughly soaked as well.

"Well then," he said, turning towards his carriage, "I'd rather not stand out here in the cold for too long." Hermione's heart dropped. _Shoot, is he leaving already? No no no, I needed to create an opportunity. But how?_ Before she could do anything, Draco glanced back at her, a cheeky grin now playing on his lips. She raised an eyebrow at that look. _No. He's up to no good._

"Would you like to take a ride with me? To my place?"

_Dear lord._

She blushed profusely.

_Has he always been such a philanderer? Does he even know what he's asking?_

"We could have your dress dried while we have some tea," he continued to offer, showing no hint of noticing her unease.

"It's been a while," he added, looking at her fixedly now. Hermione couldn't help but lock gaze with those eyes. " ... I'd like to catch up with you."

The sincerity in those last words touched her. At the same time, her head was reeling with imagined scenarios that ranged from scandalous to perilous. Nothing was going as planned. At best, she was hoping to exchange contacts tonight, not skipping all those steps! What was she supposed to do? She'd have to improvise. And Malfoy's last words ... _God, help me._ She wanted to catch up with him too.

Draco almost sighed in relief when she finally took his hand.

"I'd love to," he heard her say softly as she stepped onto the carriage with him.

He'd half-expected her to turn down the offer. After all, she was a married woman, and he had just invited her to his manor in the middle of the night. But then, the circumstances didn't seem all that unnatural to him. They were old friends, both drenched in the pouring rain. He owned the last few carriages left on the sidewalk, and he wasn't about to let her go home like that. _Well, I suppose I could have just offered to send her home._ Then again, he did not want to let her go just yet. 

_Am I just making up excuses for my shameless behaviour now?_

When he first turned around to invite her home, he did it mostly to tease her. Yes, he was being suggestive too, and he wouldn't deny that, but as he saw the hesitation on her face, he realized it was something else.

He was curious about her. Moments ago, he had been mentally preparing himself for a good battle of wits with the former Head Girl. She had instead surprised him with a demureness that he didn't recall.

Where did that snappy girl go? 

Did her marriage with Potter change her?

_Or,_ his heart sank. Maybe she didn't really want to come along, and was just being polite. After all, the last time they spoke properly? She had just found out that he'd become a Death Eater.

Uncertainty loomed between them throughout the ride, their silent thoughts punctuated only by the click-click of the horse hooves in the rain. The sound of the rain blended seamlessly with the creaking of the wheels against cobblestone boulevard into a calming rhythm. When they pulled up finally, both Draco and Hermione jumped a little in surprise.

"Here we are," Draco said, as he quickly collected himself and opened the door for her. "Ladies first."

_Here we are._ Hermione braced herself.

This was where she was expected to be.

#

Hermione had to admit that she had not known what to expect with visiting the Malfoy Manor. As soon as she stepped out of the carriage into the now lightly drizzling rain, she was overwhelmed by the size and presence of the mansion. She had assumed that Draco Malfoy's home would be grand, extravagant even, but it was beyond what she could've imagined.

In front of her were columns after columns of white pillars supporting an entablature that stretched along a long arcade leading to the main entrance. The building she could see looked as if it was only one wing of a much larger structure. As they approached double doors, she saw that they reached all the way up to the ceiling, and were made of a heavy silvery grey wood. No person could possibly push them open by hand. Looking further up, she noted that there were three stories to the manor. It was built in an architecture reminiscent of the ancient Greeks, and was rather breathtaking, yet also eerie, lonely even. Shades were drawn in every window. There was no light coming from within.

"Is there anyone home?" she asked Draco in a whisper, suddenly more nervous than she'd been before.

He did not answer. Instead, he pulled out his wand and pointed it at the doors, muttering something under his breath. For a moment, nothing happened. And then the next, there was a creak, and then a louder one, until the doors began to slowly open up on their own.

"Welcome home, Master," a voice said from the inside. It startled Hermione. There was no one in sight.

_A house elf, maybe?_

She had no way of knowing.

As she cautiously walked through the doorway, a rich but subdued scent of Indian teak wood filled her senses. Draco took off his coat, which suddenly looked as if it had sprung to life when a hanger that stood on the side pulled it off his back. Hermione, distracted by the hanger for a moment, lagged behind, before it, too, plucked her coat off, and hung her outerwear next to his. How peculiar, she thought, as she wrapped her arms around herself in discomfort. Twenty odd years in the magical world, and inanimate objects (which turned out to be not so inanimate) can still surprise her.

She looked up at the long, dimly lit corridor before her, and saw that Draco had already gone on ahead. The walls on both sides were lined with large paintings, though Hermione couldn't quite make out who were in them. They certainly didn't speak. She shook off her soaked pair of silver mules on the marble floor, and stepped onto a thick, lush carpet that led into what looked like a reception hall. A fire was crackling in the distance. The house seemed quite vacant inside, which stood in stark contrast to its size. She had so many questions for Draco, but refrained from asking just yet, and followed after him through another corridor and up a staircase.

"If you would like to get warm and dry, we have a bathroom here ready for you," he said, as he turned on the light to a quaint little dressing room with an attached bathroom.

"It hasn't been used in a while, but I had it cleaned before we arrived."

Hermione did not understand. Her visit wasn't planned, was it?

Draco just smirked at her confused expression without comment.

"You can leave your clothes right there in that basket. It will be dried by the time we finish tea. There are plenty of change here that should fit your size." He pointed to the wardrobe on the opposite wall.

"Don't hesitate to wear anything you like."

He showed her around with such ease, Hermione couldn't help but tease him.

"Do you always invite ladies to your house like this?"

He grinned even more at that. ‘Oh, you have no idea."

Leaving a rather flustered looking Hermione, Draco went to his own bathroom to freshen up as well. _Inviting women to this house?_ He almost laughed when she had said that. Maybe in the old days, when people came and went frequently for all the grand parties that his parents had liked to host here. Yes, he certainly had a fun fling or two back then. But today? ... There wasn't really anything interesting to say about his life at home today.

#

When Hermione returned to the reception hall, Draco was nowhere to be seen yet. Shivering a little from the chill, she walked up to the fireplace to gain some warmth. It was already April, but the rain had brought down the temperature significantly, and the manor was especially cold inside. As she rubbed her hands together over the fire, she delighted in how the long white mermaid dress she chose was becoming warm too against her skin. The dress wasn't too fancy, but it was made from a luxuriously soft fabric that hugged nicely against her hips. Looking down at it now in the light of the flames, she noticed elaborate white-on-white embroidering of what looked like daffodils on the skirt portion. It certainly looked vintage.

She wondered who it belonged to. The only person she could think of was Narcissa Malfoy, but she wasn't quick to judge. There was so little that she knew about the Malfoy household.

As she waited for the young master of the household to return, she took her time to look around and gain some insights into Malfoy's life beyond what Charles had been able to gather through intelligence.

The room she was in had a lot of space. Tightly surrounding the fireplace were a few comfortable looking sofas and a low table. Everything was coordinated in tones of grey, silver, and black, with accents of a rich forest green, as one would expect of loyal Slytherins. Naturally, the scattered books on the coffee table caught Hermione's eye first. She slid a hand over the covers, and read the titles attentively as she moved from the table to a bookcase lodged between the long couch and an armchair. Most of the books were records of real estates across England and Europe; a few seemed to contain architectural blueprints and land use histories. Doing a quick scan of what she remembered from Sullivan's files on the Malfoys, she recalled that Draco owned various estates across the country, some of which were leased out to various institutions in the wizarding community. 

Well, she supposed she had some physical proof now of his source of income—the one with the clean record, at least. The bookcase also had a few dictionaries, and some books on alchemy and potions that she'd seen before at Flourish and Blotts. She smiled, remembering how they had worked on Slughorn's problem sets together. It was good to know that Draco was still into the subject that he excelled at most.

Then there were some other logbooks with no titles on the spines. These piqued her curiosity the most, but she was cautious not to touch them. Snooping that far would be unwise when Malfoy could return any minute now.

She did a quick look around again. That was all. There was little else in the room, except for a lamp or two, and some portraits on the walls, which she could barely see in the low light. Again, they did not speak. She wondered if he'd modified the room after Lucius' death. The furnishing seemed too compact to suggest any social activity befitting of the room itself. The life of an aristocrat suddenly seemed more lonely than she had imagined. The manor certainly housed more rooms than necessary for a family of three. Hermione could not imagine being here alone, day after day. Is there really no one else living here right now?

"Tea?" a voice said suddenly behind her.

"Oh!" She jumped. "Oh, Malfoy. Yes ... yes, please."

Draco looked at her funnily and chuckled. "I didn't mean to startle you, Granger. Are you alright?" He asked as he presented her his hand.

"Yes," she quickly responded, her throat suddenly raspy and dry as she took his hand. Tea would be great right about now. "I just didn't hear you."

She let him guide her to the long sofa and sit her down, all the while noticing that his eyes were scanning her from head to toe again, the way he had when he noted how soaked she was in the rain earlier. It used to be his way of teasing her, when they were at Hogwarts, and it made her self-conscious of the feelings that she had for him back then.

_Be still, my heart. There's no meaning to this._

Gathering up enough wits, she cleared her throat to ask.

"What is it?"

He met her gaze then, and grinned a little, noticing her insecurity with the way he'd been looking at her. _She's really become quite timid since her school years,_ he thought to himself. _What happened to you, Granger?_

But that wasn't what he asked.

"I see you picked Mother's favorite dress," he commented instead, pointing at the embroidered daffodils, which Hermione realised now were more specifically narcissus, the Malfoy matriarch's namesake.

"It fits you well, Granger, maybe even better than it had fit her."

It felt strange to be complimented for wearing his mother's dress well.

"Where is she now?" Hermione asked, looking around as innocently as possible. Of course, she had read Sullivan's case file on the Malfoy's, so she knew that Narcissa was currently away, but the Ministry had no information on where she'd gone. There were some speculations, however. Might as well see if she could learn anything.

But Draco did not answer, and instead busied himself with putting away the books on the coffee table.

"Away," he finally said, without looking at her, and that was all.

The silence afterwards was rather uncomfortable, and it would have lasted longer if not for the sudden appearance of a tiny creature with a silver tray full of porcelain teapots, cups, pitchers and sugar cubes. "Your tea, Master," the young house elf announced meekly, and placed the tray on the now empty coffee table.

"About time," Draco said without even looking at him, irritation barely concealed. A frown formed on Hermione's forehead. Instinctively, she wanted to tell him off for being rude. The house elf looked like he was on the verge of tears. _It's not like we've been waiting all day!_

Wizarding folk never seemed to have any patience for house elves, and Malfoy wasn't an exception. To them, these beings were slaves, subhuman. To her, the perpetual mistreatment was outrageous. But she held her tongue for now, and instead leaned forward to the house elf for a better look. He had a fairly good hold on his emotions, Hermione noted. The little guy was now busying himself, pouring the steaming tea into their teacups. "Your family hired a new house elf?" she asked Malfoy with a side-glance.

Draco narrowed his eyes at that question. Even though she feigned innocence, Hermione quickly realized the error in her word choice. She cursed herself for having been so immerse in her research. No one in the wizarding community would consider house elves employees. They were attachments, at best, to ancient families. So this house elf's case was all the more curious, truly. How does a family gain a new house elf servant?

The house elf, in turn, suddenly looked terrified. Maybe it really was the wrong question to ask.

"Yes, well," Malfoy cleared his throat, at which point Hermione recalled that Harry was, in fact, responsible for freeing Dobby, the Malfoy's last house elf.

_Okay, definitely wrong question coming from me._

"We needed a new one after we lost the last," was all he would offer.

There was a slight annoyance in his voice, and the now trembling house elf finished pouring the tea and quickly disapparated. Hermione couldn't hide the disappointment from her face. She'd failed to establish a relationship with what she considered her informant. Luckily, Malfoy had already moved on and interpreted her expression differently.

"Not a fan of white peony?" he asked uneasily, making a hand gesture to her to have the tea, "I figured we wouldn't want to have too much caffeine at this time of the night."

"Oh yes," Hermione replied, taking a sip hastily, "I do love white tea. I'm sorry, I'm just ..." she put the cup back down, a little flustered. "I'm a little distracted. I just ... never thought I'd be here one day."

She was only trying to cover up her carelessness, but there was truth in her words. In different circumstances, she would have been beyond terrified of being in the infamous Death Eater family's household. With Draco's parents gone though, somehow, being alone with him didn't worry her as much. They'd spent so much time alone at Hogwarts. Even after she found out that he'd become a Death Eater, she was never really scared of him. She was hurt, yes, and deeply concerned, but never scared.

Her eyes dropped to his right forearm. Unsurprisingly, the Dark Mark was well concealed underneath a long-sleeved shirt, which she recalled then that he had worn consistently for the rest of their time in school. He never once rolled up his sleeves during their last term at Hogwarts.

She should be more concerned, shouldn't she?

As she looked up to his face again, she realised that he had been, possibly all this time, staring at her. Her cheeks burnt under his soft gaze. There was no hint of discomfort from him now, just a small smile that crept onto his lips and disappeared behind his teacup as he sipped some tea as well.

His eyes then turned to the fireplace, as Hermione stole glances at him between sips of tea. Now that they were sitting calmly at the fire, no longer hiding in the darkness of the horse carriage, she could see that Draco Malfoy had indeed grown into quite a gentleman. Beyond his undeniably more masculine composure, she noticed that his contemplative eyes had lost the child-like roundness that they used to have, and had become sharp and refined, as though the years in between had hardened them.

She wondered if she had changed that much too since they last saw each other.

"It's been so long, Granger," he finally said after a long silence. It seemed that Malfoy had also been reminiscing.

And when had he turned to her? Until he spoke again, she had not noticed that he was watching her with such an unwavering intensity that it made her blush once again. He had always had such a fierce intensity about him when he was vexed, but, when relaxed, she remembered that he was often more withdrawn rather than confrontational. Now, however, it almost seemed as if that piercing look had stuck with him. And yet, despite all the changes, his eyes still had a silvery glow to them that never failed to mesmerize her.

_Merlin, if we were in other circumstances, that look could easily undo me._

She wondered if he knew what his gaze was doing to her. That knowing smile was starting to creep back onto his lips.

"Certainly, you're more graceful and put together than you were back then."

She could tell that he was teasing her again. The way he complimented her and tried to offend her at the same time felt so familiar. She naturally fell into their old rapport too and countered in mock annoyance, "You've lost your scrawniness yourself."

"Never was as scrawny as Potter though, and see who you married."

"At least he has a spouse," Hermione retorted with a smug smile, pointing at herself.

"Ouch." Draco laughed lightheartedly, which surprised her. But then his expression changed, as if he'd remembered something as an afterthought—and it really was. He offered quietly to her questioning look.

"Well, actually, I'm engaged—at least, according to my mother."

"Oh."

Arranged marriage. Even without reading his case files, she had heard of the rumors. It wasn't rare for pure-blood families anyway.

So it was true. 

"You don't sound excited," she remarked.

Draco sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "No, I'm not." It was one of many aspects of his life that he wished his mother didn't try to interfere with.

"I've met her at social events many times over the years, but I've never actually held a conversation with her for ... more than a few minutes? She might as well be a stranger. Good lineage though."

Hermione winced at his last comment. He really did live under entirely different expectations from what she would consider the norm.

"Events ... here? In your house?" she asked distractedly. The confirmation of Malfoy being engaged had disturbed her more than she expected. Looking around at the wide space around them, she imagined the glittering chandeliers above turned on, an orchestra in the corner playing classical music, people talking and dancing, with champagne and treats passed around. She imagined witches and wizards of upscale families in their best dresses, and the house elves serving them in the shadows.

Draco hummed in agreement. "Indeed. We used to host cocktail parties and masquerade balls. Multiple times a year. It was more my mother's thing. I never quite enjoyed them."

"Really?" Hermione had no idea he had no interest in parties, but thinking back to their time at Hogwarts, she realized that Draco had spent much of his last few years being around a very small group of friends. _Maybe that was why._  

"I'd imagine them to be lovely. It's quite lonely here now..."

She wondered if she was touching on a sensitive subject again.

"I'm not really a fan of large crowds, no," he grimaced. "I prefer," he glanced at her then, catching her eye. "Like this, right now, you and I talking over tea. This is nice."

"This I enjoy."

Hermione didn't know how to feel. She wasn't sure if he had ever sounded so sincerely relaxed around her.

"But the parties," he continued, "They were draining. I'd rather retire to the library and read. Not that Father would've ever allowed that." He looked at her with that smirk of his now, and sat back, relaxing into his seat.

"You must know how that feels, Granger."

She felt like a school girl being courted, blushing at every turn. It couldn't be helped. First it was the playful banter, and now a conversation like old friends... It was nothing like what she'd expected to have with him, not after what happened in their seventh year. Hermione almost completely forgot about the real reason why she was at the manor, when the house elf appeared again. Apparently, he knew when the tea was gone. Hermione surmised that Draco likely had a way to contact him remotely as well. The house elf must have been the one who prepared the bath for her earlier.

This time, she managed to have a good look at the young creature. He was wearing rags that were barely clothes, which was a part of the cruel covenant between house elves and their masters. Giving them clothing would mean freedom—or banishment—depending on how you looked at it. He was about three feet tall, and had a pale green complexion that Hermione had never encountered before among her informants. His tiny hands shivered just a little when he carried the tray of teapots, as if they were too heavy for him—they probably were, but Hermione wasn't so rude as to take his job from him. She'd remembered what happened the last time she had tried for another house elf. There was a lot of wailing and head banging. She definitely had to avoid those right now.

"What is your name?" Hermione asked with a smile.

"Sy... Symon, Mistress," he whimpered. Hermione could see how his knees were shaking uncontrollably. So this was Symon. His name was on Sullivan's case file too. In fact, it was his name that their informant had spilled to the Ministry. Hermione wondered who the Ministry informant was.

"That is a beautiful name, Symon," she said, reaching a hand out to him, "I'm Hermione."

Symon almost beamed - if house elves smiled ever, that is. He bowed a little, but refrained from shaking her hand when he saw the cold look on his master's face. Hermione retracted her hand, undeterred. She was used to house elves taking their time to warm up to people.

Pushing her luck a little more, she asked Symon another question, "When did you come to this house?"

Malfoy answered instead. "We got him about two years ago. Stop asking him questions. You're making him nervous."

Hermione wanted to point out that he was the one making Symon nervous, but she held her tongue.

"I don't need a nervous servant in the house," Draco was still saying, his nasty streak surfacing suddenly. "Especially with these nerve-wrecking creatures. Go on, pour some tea for the lady," he ordered Symon.

The house elf obeyed quickly, but the damage was done. Symon was so nervous that the tea was splashing out of the teacup under his shaking hands. Some hot tea hit Hermione's bare arms, and she reflexively reached up to sooth the burn.

"Now look what you've done!"

Hermione couldn't quite tell if Draco was shouting at Symon or at her, but the next thing she knew, the house elf was knocked off his feet. Hot tea spilled all over his tiny body as he fell onto the carpet with the teapot.

"Malfoy!" Hermione was incredulous.

Symon whimpered softly, instinctively thinking that she was mad at him too, but Hermione only pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the tea off his face. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she glared daggers at Draco. This was just too much.

"He's not your slave! You can't treat other beings like this!"

She finally allowed herself to say what was on her mind all this time.

Draco had gotten off his feet as well, but he was more shaken than livid. It was true that he was accustomed to being irritated by Symon, but he had never actually physically hurt him before. _I am just like father after all._ He deserved all the cowering disgusted looks he received from strangers. But he cast that thought away as quickly as he had it. He couldn't blame everything on his upbringing. No. That wasn't it. It was something else. It was her questions, and her presence. _But why?_

He watched with apprehension as she smoothed Symon's rags and whispered words of comfort to the young house elf. She was Potter's wife, he reminded himself then, and it made him anxious suddenly. She was the wife of one of the most elite aurors, who was intent on defeating the Dark Lord. What if he had misjudged her intentions tonight? A chill ran up Draco's spine at that thought. But looking at her now, glaring at him with that feistiness that he knew so well now back in her tear-welling eyes, he could't help but think how unbelievably attractive she was, even when she was so upset. Hermione Granger had always been a really nosy woman, he remembered that much. But she was also good-natured and sympathetic in her intrusiveness. He couldn't hate it. But it was such an inappropriate thought in that moment, that suspicion got the better of him soon enough.

"Who do you think you are?" he snapped back, gaining momentum in his anger with every word. "You have no right to tell me how I should treat my servant. And I knew you were strange, Granger, but who would even try to engage in conversations with a house elf? Everyone knows how easily agitated they—"

"And have you even thought about why that is?" Hermione retorted before he could finish his sentence, and turned to face him directly while sitting protectively between him and Symon.

"You look at him with such cold eyes, Malfoy. How on earth do you expect him not to be frightened of you? Have you ever even spoken a kind word to Symon? Have you ever apologized? Did it even cross your mind?"

Malfoy was about to give her a piece of his mind, when Symon gave out a shriek and started hitting himself in the head.

"I'M SO SORRY MASTER! I'M SO SORRY MASTER!"

"SHUT IT!" Malfoy yelled, and Symon immediately stopped, though his whimpering remained.

"Do you see this, Granger? This is what he does when he gets upset. And if you don't command them to stop, they never will!" He was raving now. "How would you like to deal with this on a day-to-day basis? You think it's easy because you don't actually LIVE with these creatures. If you were in my place, you'd be as irritated as I am, waiting for that next shriek or head banging—"

"If I were in your place, Malfoy," she said with such contempt, "I would have given him some proper clothes and hired him."

There was silence in the room. Malfoy looked speechless. Symon's large eyes became so wide she thought they'd fall off. Evidently, it was an unthinkable thought to either of them. She wasn't surprised, but it still infuriated her no less.

"...I can't do that," Draco finally said. It was almost a whisper.

"And why not?" she huffed, "It wouldn't be the first time for your family."

He snickered mockingly in response.

"You wouldn't understand."

"What wouldn't I understand?"

She couldn't believe how he was not even giving it a thought.

"You're too naive. It's not as simple as that."

Now she was more than piqued. "Don't patronize me. You may be from a wealthy family, and have a house that can host hundreds of people at a time, but the rest of us get by without help, and you have no idea how much privilege your entire family sits on! You're so lucky to have a servant to do your laundry - your guest's laundry! And pour you tea! Are these things you can't do by yourself? Are you so incompetent that you had to get a new house elf, when you had already let go of—"

"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND, GRANGER."

It shut her up. The volume of his voice surprised her.

She looked at him fixedly, but couldn't read his expression. There was anger, and—and what was it? Sadness? He looked as if he were about to tear up. _What did I say to hurt him that much?_ It had been so long since they sparred. She couldn't remember how far was too far. And she'd never seen him like this, but she was also so mad, so so mad.

After a long silence, Malfoy exhaled deeply and sat back down into his seat with one hand on his temple.

"Please go home," he said dismissively. "Symon will show you out."

The house elf scrambled up to get ready, but Hermione didn't let him try.

"I'll show myself out, thank you."

Even after all that, he still reflexively assumed Symon's diligence. Or was it a show of his resolve? She couldn't tell. It didn't matter either way. She was too angry to care.


	6. A Walk Among Ruins

“Did you inform Him of the lady's visit?”

“No, Master.”

“You better not be lying to me.”

“Symon is not lying, Master.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“But Symon means it ...”

“Of course you do.”

“... Master?”

“What.”

“She's really nice.”

“... Nobody asked for your opinion, you half-pint scoundrel.”

#

She blew it. She _blew it._ She shouldn’t have gone. Should’ve just asked to meet on a different day. Regrouped with Charles. No. She should’ve turned down the assignment! How did she let her superiors talk her into this? 

“What was I thinking!”

Hermione all but shrieked as she stormed through her front door and into the open kitchen with a mission. Turning on the stove, she started to get the kettle going, before she realized that she was making tea out of habit. _No one needs another goddamn tea right now._ She flicked her wand at the stove several times in frustration before it finally extinguished the flame. Unbuttoning her dampened coat, she turned around to discard it on the kitchen counter, when she found her husband watching her from the sofa with a startled look on his face.

“Harry!”

“Hey.”

“I ... I didn’t realize you were back,” she hurriedly explained, remissly placing her coat in a corner. “I’m sorry, I had an awful night. I … don’t even know where to start.” She stopped what she was saying. Her husband was still staring at her measuredly, and he looked tired, worn. 

_Did he just return from a case?_

Harry sighed heavily and got off the couch to join her in the kitchen.  Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her close with an unreadable expression on his face.  It scared Hermione a little.

“Did he hurt you?” 

They only held each other’s gaze for a moment before she understood. “You knew?” she gasped.

“Colin—”

“But he strictly forbade me to!”

Harry nodded and sighed again.  “I know. He didn’t want me distracted on assignment tonight. And maybe he was right ... but I still wished you’d told me.”

_Wish you never went,_ he didn’t say.

“I’m sorry."  Hermione said in earnest, and buried her head in his chest. "I wish I did now. Maybe I wouldn’t have gone.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, clearly concerned. 

“Do you want to talk about it? And ... " He trailed off as he pulled away from her to take a look again. "When did you get this?”

She was wearing an expensive-looking dress that he had never seen. Otherwise, she looked just as she always did when she went to work: Her face minimally made up, her hair down in wavy tassels. Her hair was damp from the rain, and it smelled … like an unfamiliar shampoo. Harry grimaced at the implications.

Hermione looked down at the white dress that she was wearing and cursed herself quietly. She hadn’t changed out of Narcissa Malfoy’s dress!  _And_ she’d left that green dress that she had borrowed from Colin’s assistant at the Malfoy Manor. _Just marvellous._

“It’s a long story,” she began to explain, but then looked at the clock and hesitated. Harry noticed and slid his hands down to hers, squeezing them reassuringly. “I can listen. Come on, let’s get you dry," he said with an encouraging smile as he handed her a towel. "I’ll make us some cocoa.”

Hermione couldn't express how grateful she was of him. "You are my rock, Harry," she said softly, taking the towel from him and wiping her hair. Harry smiled as he watched her go into the bedroom to get changed. "I know," he whispered back. 

#

“—the worst part of it all, was that I didn’t do anything while that, _that rich prick_  abused his house elf! Not until he beat the poor thing up and threw scalding hot tea.  _in. his. face!_ ”

Recalling her evening at the manor, Hermione was livid again.  “And I kept giving him excuses in my head too, rationalized it with all that Dobby had told me before about that household. The awful, racist, elitist _rubbish_ Lucius Malfoy planted in his head. _That he didn’t know better!_ ” 

She dropped her cold mug of cocoa on the coffee table and held her head in her hands, frustrated that she had expected Malfoy to have somehow become a decent human being.

Harry gently soothed her as he listened, massaging her shoulders to help her relax. “You’ve given him many chances, love,” he said quietly.  “Maybe it’s time you accept that the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree, even after the tree is dead.”

Hermione closed her eyes, taking in the metaphor. “You can’t blame everything on someone’s upbringing,” she breathed.

“No,” he agreed. “It’s just that … this isn’t the first time he’s disappointed you, you know?”

She knew he was right. Yet even as she nodded, she felt the dissonance between her ranting and the look on Malfoy’s face earlier that evening.

_"You don't understand, Granger."_

Those words kept resounding in her head. And his eyes, sadder than she'd ever seen. He looked so much like he did when she first discovered his Mark.

It bothered her.

Harry noticed how she had fallen into silence. He wasn’t sure if she was fully convinced, but he was relieved, regardless, that nothing had happened between her and Malfoy that evening. As unhappy as he was with her for going ahead with the mission without telling him, he understood that their superiors had planned for it to be that way. He didn’t blame her for that. 

Still, it didn't take away the uneasy feeling that had been eating him up since their meeting with Sullivan. No, Harry was more troubled now than before. Malfoy clearly still had a hold over her, and her negative impression of him now made Harry feel better, but only marginally.  Humming softly to himself, he slid his hands down her arms and slipped them under her pyjama shirt as he rubbed circles on her soft skin. His sensual touch would’ve been welcome normally, but Hermione’s mind was elsewhere now.

“Harry—”

“I’ll be honest, love,” he interrupted, whispering in her ear from behind, “I think this was the best scenario that we could have hoped for.”

Hermione tilted her head towards him, unsure of what he meant. Harry took his glasses off with one hand, put them on the coffee table, and wrapped his arms around her again, pulling her closer and resting his chin on her shoulder.

“You tried,” he explained, looking into her eyes deeply. “You proved that you’re not the right candidate for spying on Malfoy.”

She agreed mostly, but averted her gaze as she hadn’t told him how wistful Malfoy had seemed when they were catching up, just before she botched the assignment. There was potential there.

“And you confirmed for yourself that he is an ass through and through,” Harry continued to say, turning her head away from him now, and kissing her neckline.

She wasn’t sure about that either.

“We can move on now,” he breathed heavily into her ear. Hermione’s breath hitched as one of his hands slid up to cup her breast, and his thumb brushed over her nipple firmly, insistently. His other hand slid downwards and toyed with the waistline of her pyjama bottoms, promising to go further. She can feel his body radiating with heat and arousal against hers, and she, too, was undeniably turned on by him, as his fingers moved with experience over her skin. It reminded her that Harry was, for all his usual modesty, very much a strong, virile man. The lewd suggestions he was whispering in her ear now felt especially dirty. Thoughts of Malfoy flashed across her mind once again.

“Not now—” she hastily exhaled, moving his hands away from her chest and abdomen. “Not not, Harry.”

He froze in his place, and she took the opportunity to turn around, sitting just a few more inches away to signal that she meant it. Her heart dropped when she saw the disappointment written over his features.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, lowering her gaze in shame. She couldn’t. Not when her mind was swirling. Not when she was thinking about another man, even if it wasn’t in _that_ way.

“I can’t … focus right now.”

He wanted to tell her that she didn’t need to. _He_ can focus on pleasuring her. But he respected her desire, or—he supposed—her lack thereof. No meant no meant _No_. Feeling somewhat ashamed too for testing her fidelity, Harry sighed and put his glasses back on.

“Why don’t we—”

From the way that he spoke, Hermione could tell that he had already moved on to other ideas. It was comforting, how respectful Harry was of her on such matters. It made her feel safe. And honestly, a chaste cuddle in bed was all she wanted, and a good night’s sleep. She was ready for that.

“—Floo the Weasleys for a quick drink?”

Her face fell. _Not what I was thinking._

“I doubt Ellen can join us, what with the kids,” Harry continued to say, oblivious to her lack of desire to head out. “But Ron and the twins surely can.”

Hermione glanced at the clock behind him. Her frown deepened.

“Harry, it’s almost midnight.”

He chuckled at how she was back to her judicious self. It was a start.

“But it’s Saturday. You know they’re probably up obsessing over Fred and George’s latest inventions. Hell, they might even all be at the bar right now.”

She was only half convinced, but Harry was already gathering their coats and the apartment keys. A thought occurred to him, and he scribbled a quick few words on a torn piece of parchment.

“Harry—”

“Come on, just for a couple drinks?” he suggested, tying the parchment to Hedwig’s talon, before shooing her out the window with a breadcrumb. The old owl pecked his fingers and flew off into the night. “You never join us at the Leaky.”

Naturally, Hermione had a retort ready. “We can’t even talk about my work with them.” 

Harry closed the window and turned back to face her. “I know, love.” He was commiserative. “But that could be a good thing, no? They’ll cheer you up. Distract you.”

Hermione gave him a look. She rarely enjoyed distractions - not voluntarily anyway. At the same time, she knew that Harry was right. She did miss her friends. Especially on a night like this, when she felt betrayed by someone whom she had considered one. She didn’t even know why. All she and Malfoy ever did was bump heads. She should have understood long ago that they were from different worlds, with entirely incompatible morals. The same question she’s been asking herself all night returned: _What was I thinking?_

Seeing her grow quiet once again, Harry jested. “Get your butt off the couch, Mrs. Potter, or I’ll get it off for you.” He knew he succeeded when her features softened. Picking up the Floo Powder jar on their fireplace, he jangled it at her teasingly.

“I’m going to call them now.”

Hermione growled at his taunting and got off the couch. “Let me at least change into something more presentable,” she huffed exaggeratedly, stalking into their bedroom.

Harry grinned then. He hadn’t been with her all these years for nothing. He knew exactly how to coax her out of her shell.

#

“That’s Layla, my partner.”

Harry pointed at a pretty girl, who was picking up a pint of beer from the bar. Now, having noticed them, she practically bounced across the Leaky Cauldron to catapult herself into Harry, beer spilling everywhere. 

“You came!” she exclaimed with glee. “And this must be Hermione, I am so happy to finally meet you!”  The young blonde shook her hand with such enthusiasm that Hermione thought she might dislocate her arm. “Layla Moreau, Assistant Auror under S.A.U. I just transferred, but I’ve heard so much about you already—” 

She then managed to startle Hermione even more by pulling her close and whispering into her ear. “I’ve seen you around the office actually, but I hadn’t found the courage to say hi yet. I heard you’re an Unspeakable, so let’s pretend this is the first time?”

She pulled back then, smiling mischievously.

“Uh, it’s nice to meet you too, Layla,” Hermione answered. The girl unnerved her.

“And Ronny!” The young beauty was now wrapping her arms around Ron Weasley’s neck. “I haven't seen you in a while. Has the Auror Office missed me?”

"You look fabulous, Layla!” Ron Weasley said loudly in her face, hands on her waist. He wasn’t home when the Potters floo’ed the Weasleys, and Ellen, his wife, answered. Turns out, Ron had been at the bar for a few hours already by then, and was frankly quite wasted.

“Can’t belief we leh’ him snatch you from us,” he said rather incoherently, glaring daggers at Harry.

“You’ll never let me live this down, would you, mate?” Harry chuckled, patting Ron on the back. “She’s been nothing but brilliant with us though, so don’t you worry.” Layla beamed. Their exchange somehow made Hermione jealous - like Layla had replaced her as part of the trio. They were all aurors, except for her. 

“Well, she could’a been brilliant at our office!” Ron blurted, jabbing a finger on his best mate’s chest. “It’s bad enuf Colin stole you from me. You know we always need a hand in our precinct—Hermione!”

“Ron, it’s really good to see you, too,” Hermione greeted him warmly, though raising an eyebrow at how drunk her old friend was already. “Are you alright?”

He nodded vigorously, and waved a hand at Harry, which apparently was an understated signal between them for another round of alcohol - Harry was already ordering a flight of Fire Whiskey for them all.

“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t feel like hard liquor toni—“ “Oh com’on, ‘Mione! You shoulda take a shot wif us! I barely get to see you these days.”

“Yes, I’ve been asking Harry to invite you too,” Layla enthused as well.

“You the only one left, you know?” Ron continued to carp between hiccups, looking on the verge of tears now. He slung an arm over Hermione’s shoulder, which weighted rather heavily on her. “The only friend that Sullivan an' Colin hafn’t stolen from me.” 

It broke her heart that she couldn’t tell him the truth. Ron was such a loyal and sentimental guy. She couldn’t imagine the day when she would tell him that she’d been working for Sullivan all along. 

“Ginny works for the Daily Prophet?” she tried apologetically.

Ron rolled his eyes. “She’s muh  _sister_ , ‘Mione. An' I get _these guys_ , savin' the world an' all—” He then pointed at Harry and Layla, who raised eyebrows at each other. 

“Well—” Harry began to interrupt, but the bartender called him back to the bar; the Fire Whiskey was ready. Hermione felt the apprehension build as she realized where Ron was likely going with this.

“Why don’t _you_ come over to the Burrow more of' en tho?” he griped. “Mom’s been asking for you, and so haf Gin an' Ellen! We’re worried about you, ‘Mione. I mean, who wouldaf thought - _'Mione Granger! Laid off by Hogwarts!"_ "Now, that is an exaggeration—" Hermione interrupted angrily, having had enough of his condescension, but Ron didn't stop there. "I gotta say though, I’m glad'a you guys are fin'aly living together. Ellen gave me two kids 'ready, but you—”

“ _Ronald Weasley!_ " Layla interjected, surprising everyone.  "A lady’s intention to have children or lack thereof is none of your business!"

And before he can protest, she quickly changed the topic. “Enough with that. Have you noticed anything different?” She swung her head side to side expectantly, prompting Ron to narrow his eyes at her in confusion. With an exaggerated sigh, Layla swooped her long hair up, and showed off the red highlights hiding in her thick mane. Her dangling earrings matched as well. 

“I got these to celebrate joining S.A.U.! Boss is mad at me though. Said it makes me too recognizable. As if Death Eaters care about auror fashion choices—”

“There is nothing to celebrate!” Ron raised his voice irritatedly as he took a shot of Fire Whiskey from Harry before he had a chance to distribute them. “It should’ve been me…” he mumbled under his breath, thumping the now empty shot glass on the bar table.

”I’m sure it’s fine, Layla,” Harry laughed, stealthily taking Ron’s shot glass from him before he turned aggressive. “Colin is an old worryguts. Let’s introduce Hermione to our colleagues, shall we?” He turned to his moping red-headed friend. “Anyone on Moody's team here tonight?”

Ron mumbled a no and something about being underappreciated in his job position, that he should be Deputy by now, but Layla made a happy little sound and took Hermione’s hand to dance her across the room and introduce her to her friends and colleagues in the Ministry. The young assistant auror seemed to know everyone. Ron was obviously a regular too; he was now singing a melancholy tune with his arm around the bartender.

"She's very bubbly," Hermione whispered to Harry a while later, when they finally settled into their seats at a table. Layla was still doing her rounds of greetings around the pub.  Harry chuckled as he handed her another shot of Fire Whiskey and downed his. “Don’t let her tattling fool you. She might be our youngest, but she’s sharp."

Hermione agreed. That much was clear to her with how Layla had handled Ron's tactlessness.

And the night rolled on, with more laughter, singing, and drinking. After her third shot of Fire Whiskey and a beer, Hermione felt like she was floating on air. It helped take her mind off things, even though the hangover that was sure to come was questionably worth the price. But right now she didn’t care. Right now she just wanted to fall asleep. 

With her eyes closed and head nested in her folded arms on the table, she vaguely listened to Harry and Layla, who were engaging in an intense conversation across the table. Ron snored away on her side.

“Sure is a heavy sleeper,” Layla droned, poking the red-head with her wand. He didn’t even grumble.

“They both are.”

Hermione wanted to correct Harry, but Layla’s next words made her reconsider. 

“So, it didn’t go well?” Layla asked pointedly.

“You’re not supposed to know that.”  Harry sounded displeased.

Hermione remained in her position listening, pretending to be asleep.

“Sooo I eavesdropped on your conversation with Colin," Layla responded cheekily. "But a partner’s gotta know what’s bothering their partner.”

“It’s alright, it’s no longer relevant anyway.”

“You don’t sound disappointed.” 

Hermione heard Layla chuckle, and Harry clear his throat uncomfortably in response. “That’s none of your business.”

Layla laughed again. “Testy, testy.” 

“So, is she okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“You promised you'd never lie to me, Harry.” The assistant auror responded with an intensity that wasn’t there before, but she also quickly lowered her voice, as if they were discussing something that was more secret than secret. “I know what happened to Cho.”

_Cho Chang?_ Hermione had not heard her name in years. When Harry cleared his throat again, he sounded more forlorn.

“You shouldn’t know about that either. Besides, it ... didn’t come to … that.”

They both went silent for a while. Hermione continued to pretend to not be listening in, but with how much she had had to drink, it was getting hard not to just drift off. The next time she heard them speaking, their tones were more hushed than before.

“—How did it go?”

“Not a lot of progress.” 

Layla sounded more sombre now. “I still think the breaking and entering cases are Dark Alliance related.”

“Any news from the Auror Office on motives? Any witnesses of the criminals?”

“No," she sounded like she was at wit's end. "Most of the victims refused to report their stolen items. There were reports of black cloaks in masks though.”

“Son of a—”  Harry growled, which gave Hermione a jolt.

“You awake, love?” Harry asked, touching her head now, which caused her a wave of headaches. Hermione grunted softly in pain.

“You should take her home,” Layla whispered.

“Yeah,” he whispered back, and then added hesitantly, “One last thing though. You said ‘most’, what about the exceptions?”

Layla groaned. “Oh, we’re both going to need another stiff drink to talk about _that_.”

The last thing Hermione remembered was Layla standing up and walking away towards the bar. The next time she woke up, she was in bed, with Harry’s arms lightly wrapped around her. She didn’t even have a hangover. 

The Sunday morning sunshine was dazzling, and two owls perched quietly on their windowsill, each bearing a letter for her in their beaks.

#

_I'd like to meet and apologize for yesterday. I'll be waiting. - D._

Hermione held her breath for a long while, reading the two sentences once, and then twice. Initial D. It was him. And there seemed to be another folded parchment attached to his letter - this one had a wax seal on it, engraved with the words _non videbis,_ which was Latin for “only thou shalt see”. She tried to pry it open with her fingers, but the seal did not budge. Maybe it was protected by a spell. After a few tries, she found that a basic counter-disillusionment charm worked to reveal a short poem, with clues to release the seal.

“How cheeky,” she tittered softly, reading the first verse under her breath. “ _Oh, swift sweet messenger, winged heels they shall guide. Dawn follows Jupiter, three beyond noontide._ Hmm. _”_

Jupiter was an obvious reference to the play that they had both seen the night before. It was a story based on Greek mythology, and Jupiter’s messenger was Mercury, who wore wings on his heels. Hermione chuckled then, recalling that Mercury’s Roman equivalent was Hermes, the male counterpart to her name. So she was the “swift sweet messenger.” _How lovely._ “Winged heels—” Did he expect her to fly to meet him? And “dawn follows Jupiter,” which she can take literally as the morning after the play. Three beyond noontide would be 3pm. 

Glancing at the splendid Eagle Owl who brought her the letter, and then the clock on the wall, she saw that it was almost noon. She’d really slept in today. _Do I have enough time?_ There were a few more verses to Malfoy’s clues. 

_I shouldn't go,_ was her next thought. She put down the curious sealed parchment, but couldn’t help but glance at his short letter again.

_I'll be waiting,_ he said. 

Hermione felt her cheeks burn. It almost read like a letter sent by a distraught lover. And the poem too. How can she deny his subtle flirting? 

She turned around to look at her sleeping husband. All sprawled out on the bed, Harry lay comfortably on his belly. She didn’t want to disturb him, but she had to let him know.

"Harry... Harry,” Hermione nudged.

“Mmm.”

"Malfoy wants to see me.”

Harry only half opened his eyes, mumbling sleepily in reply. "... Don't go ... it’s … a trap." 

She had thought of that. She didn’t agree though, rash as it may be. Something about the way that Malfoy wrote the letter, and how secretive he was about what was likely the location of their meeting … she trusted him. At that thought, she blushed furiously again. _Is this some kind of crazy excuse I'm giving myself? To see someone I'm possibly still infatuated with?_

That can't be it. But then, there was the urge within her. _I'm not infatuated with him,_ she reminded herself for the umpth time. _That was a long time ago, in different circumstances._ Now she just wanted to speak to him, to resolve the tension from the night before. That was all. 

She saw that Harry had closed his eyes again, snoring softly. Hermione wished they could talk more thoroughly, but she wanted to let him rest. And she recalled his conversation with Layla - they were investigating Death Eater related burglaries. She inferred that much. Harry had seemed so desperate for information, she realized that he was bluffing when he told Sullivan that they were close to arresting members of the Dark Alliance, the Dark Lord’s innermost circle. 

_Good to hear you are safe. Debrief Monday morning. - C.C._

That was the other letter, which, she presumed, was from Charles. Hedwig, who was now snoozing next to the Eagle Owl, was the one who brought it back, so she figured that Harry must have sent a quick report to their chief auror. She should’ve thought about it the night before. But then, Hermione didn't fully share her husband's relief that her assignment was over. Her fight with Malfoy had left a bad taste in her mouth, and now he was asking to meet. 

Stroking the Eagle Owl, who was tilting his head at her expectantly, she found herself finally decided. Giving the fluffy guy a few bread crumbs to nibble on, she let him go before writing a curt acknowledgement to Charles, and nudging Hedwig awake to send her on her way as well. 

It didn't matter to her what her assignment was supposed to be about. She needed to know whether she had judged Malfoy wrong, and this mattered to her, and to her alone.

“Harry, I’m going. I need to know what had upset him so much.”

The sleepy auror mumbled something about nursing a bad hangover and not being up for discussion right now, but Hermione wasn’t one to wait around for his permission. Gently ruffling her husband’s messy black hair, she left a soft kiss on his cheek before getting around to getting herself ready. In particular, she poured out the appropriate amount of her special blend of hangover cure and mixed it with a refreshing lemon juice, which she placed on the kitchen counter with a wrapped sandwich for Harry. Tipping the potion bottle, she saw that the batch that she had made last month was mostly gone. It was about time she had to restock. Hermione sighed. Ever since they moved in together, she was starting to learn that Harry coming home drunk on days off would be a regular occurrence. She also left him a note on the kitchen counter, letting him know that she’d be home before dark. 

Risky or not, she was going. 

#

Hermione adored the surprise that awaited her once she solved Malfoy's clues. The folded parchment opened up to reveal a picturesque hand drawn map, charmed with pop-up paper figures of Diagon Alley and its surrounding neighborhoods. There were even lamp posts along the hand drawn streets, with tiny road signs on them, which enlarged to legible size when Hermione tapped on them with her wand. The directions seemed to go far beyond walking distance from the streets she was familiar with, and Hermione confirmed her fear that a broomstick would be the only reasonable transportation. _Heeled wings they shall guide_ , Malfoy did say, but she wasn’t particularly fond of flying. Hesitantly taking Harry’s spare Comet, she cast a disillusionment charm over herself, and set off flying south to Diagon Alley, so that she can follow the map's directions from there.

A line of ink displayed more instructions as she reached the intersection indicated on the map: _Turn right here_. 

How helpful, she thought, as she compared the new buildings popping up on the map to their real equivalents. _If Malfoy charmed this himself, I am sure impressed._

The scenery around her began to change from city to countryside. Aside for the occasional barn, there didn’t seem to be a man-made structure in sight. As she flew on, however, Hermione noticed remnants of stone walls hiding here and there along what seemed to be once well maintained farmlands, now taken over by wild flora. Soon, she found herself flying through an endless meadow of golden flowers. The wind tingled her now rosy cheeks, and the air was ambrosial. It was beautiful. She wasn’t sure why she had never visited this area.

Pulling out the map to take a peek once more, she saw a castle pop up twenty or so miles from where she was. A red cross emerged near it, and the line of ink now said: _Moonstone Café._

Hermione stuffed the map into her coat, her heart palpitating in anticipation. She was getting close. Leaning into her broom, she accelerated towards the castle ruins, which soon appeared in the distance. A tiny structure appeared just south of it. _That must be it._

Hermione pulled out her wand as she arrived at her destination. She understood that letting her guard down now would be a mistake, even if she thought she could trust Malfoy. When she finally laid her eyes on the cafe though, her vigilance faltered.  Moonstone Cafe turned out to be a quaint little log house made of deep red cedar. Landing in front of it and unmounting, she saw pretty circles of ornamental cabbages on both sides of the front door, with pink puff balls of flowers growing on tall stalks poking their heads out from within. Piles of colorful stones were haphazardly placed at their feet. On closer inspection though, Hermione saw that a series of pearly white stones formed a pattern along them. It took her a moment to realize that they were letters, spelling out the name of the cafe.

_How charming._

Still feeling a little cautious, she went inside with her wand on her side. A bell tinkled above her, and a delightful aroma of coffee and biscuits filled her senses. The interior was lovely too. Dimly-lit orange lamplights in flower-shaped glass bells lined along honey yellow walls that were painted with intricate patterns of black and brown. The windows were made of old imperfect glass, which caused the soft sunlight coming through to shimmer and glisten in rainbow colors on the tables and hardwood floors. There was nothing suspicious about this place. Hermione finally lowered her wand.

A smiling man with a tiny grey moustache and friendly twinkling eyes welcomed her warmly from across the bar counter. Returning his smile, Hermione combed through her wind-blown hair and hastily straightened her dress. She heard in the background what sounded like an old record player playing a beautiful song. It was dreamy, wistful, and reminded her of the long gone past, when things had seemed simpler. As she scanned the room, she finally saw Draco Malfoy, who was sitting in a comfortable corner booth and gazing at her tenderly.

_No, I'm imagining things. There's no meaning to how he's looking at me._

It was disarming, how easily she forgave him the moment she saw him again. In fact, remembering what she had said to him the night before, calling him incompetent and all... she felt awful.

Slowly, she walked to his table and sat down opposite him, though avoiding his gaze from self-consciousness. A young waiter approached them then, diffusing the silence with more coffee for Malfoy and a cup for her as well.

"This is our staple, miss. The beans were directly imported from Colombia,” he said with a smile and oriented the cup in front of her, placing a tiny cup of cream next to it. “We hope you enjoy it.”

Hermione smiled back and thanked him. Normally she hated men ordering for her without asking, but the coffee was exactly what she wanted. It smelled fantastic. 

"I'm sorry for last night," she said, as soon as the waiter was gone. "I went too far."

Malfoy shook his head. "That's alright. I wasn't all that nice myself." Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he added, "I meant to stop you after I realized how crass I'd been, asking you to leave in the rain, but you were already gone by the time I got to the front door."

Hermione simpered. She did storm out with gusto, and immediately disapparated outside his mansion gates. 

And yet, he was admitting now that he had chased after her, and made an effort to reach out. Remembering the letter almost made her heart race again. 

"That was a lovely poem and map you had sent me," she complimented, pulling out the map and placing it on the table. "Did you make them?"

Draco smirked. "The poem and the seal, yes. The map was charmed by the owner here," he said, pointing at the old man who was now cleaning the counter at the bar. "It's a piece of art, isn't it? He makes them in his free time."

Hermione agreed. Absentmindedly, she reread the poem that she confirmed now was written by him, and wondered where she wanted to start. There were so many things she had wanted to say, things she had wanted to ask. But the way he was looking at her... she could feel his soft gaze on her. Suddenly she couldn't think straight. The way he was now was so unfamiliar. Never in a million years did she expect to be here like this today, sitting opposite him at a secret meeting spot, just because he wanted to apologize. _Just because he wanted to see me again?_ Her heart was beating out of control.

_She's so quiet again today._ Malfoy felt a strange sense of longing for the woman sitting before him. He almost wished she was angry again, for she felt so distant when she didn't speak. The way a strand of her wavy long hair fell in front of her eyes was alluring. And the way her long eyelashes fluttered as she admired the poem he had written out of a moment of creativity, looking so distracted and... what was it? _Is she possibly blushing?_ Her cheeks were probably just still flushed from the ride. He couldn't tell. 

Malfoy had wondered whether she would still be angry with him, if she might burst into the coffee shop and give him a piece of her mind again. And he was bracing himself for the blow, hoping to calm her down and maybe, just maybe, start from the beginning again, as ... friends. He wasn't sure if that was what he had wanted, but when she finally came through the door, what was it that he felt? He felt like she had come here to find her date, looking so nervous and distraught. It couldn't be true, could it? Hermione Granger, genuinely excited to see him, a Malfoy?

Their eyes met again. This time, he was positive that her cheeks got a little redder. He almost smiled. _It can't be._

"Your coffee's getting cold, Granger," he said, feigning nonchalance as he picked a biscuit from the assorted desserts that he had ordered for them. "Is something bothering you?" He asked before taking a bite.

"Oh..." Hermione woke up from her musings, looking a little flustered as she raised her cup to her lips. The coffee was delicious. 

“I guess... I've been wondering why you got so upset—with your house elf, that is," she said, mustering up some courage.

Malfoy grinned teasingly at that.  "I do recall now that you used to have a strong affinity to them. SPEW, was it?"

Hermione smiled. _Not just_ used _to,_ she wanted to say, but she couldn't.

"Yes—and then," her tone increasing in assertion as she continued. "You said that I didn't understand. So I wanted to know … if you would want to tell me about it."

It was the most crucial question that she had for him about the night before. 

Malfoy frowned slightly at that, and placed the biscuit that he was about to finish back on his saucer. 

"I guess it's unavoidable that you'd ask,” he responded sombrely. Hermione clenched her hands in her lap as his frown deepened. There was clearly more to the story.

"I shouldn't have hit him,” Malfoy continued with genuine remorse. “But Symon and I..." He stopped, realizing that there was nothing that he could really disclose to her. “I understand your assumptions, but we're not on good terms for a good reason. I can't say more than that ... I'm sorry."

Hermione shook her head, indicating that it was fine. Their eyes met once more, and she noticed that he looked grim again. "Maybe there'll come a day when I can share it with you," he said under his breath, looking away from her towards the window.

_What pains you so?_ It was frustrating not to know. The cheery instrumental music in the background had changed unbeknownst to her to a song sung by a crooning male voice. Even though he sounded carefree, when Hermione listened to the lyrics more closely, they made her sad.

_Is it a sin_  
_Is it a crime_  
_Loving you dear like I do?_  
_If it's a crime then I'm guilty_  
_Guilty of loving you_

 _Maybe I'm wrong dreaming of you_  
_Dreaming the lonely night through_  
_If it's a crime then I'm guilty_  
_Guilty of dreaming of you_

"Do you want to take a walk?" 

His suggestion after a long moment of silence startled her. Malfoy had stood up from the table, and was extending his hand to her courteously. She looked outside, where the golden meadow was within arms reach. It was a beautiful day. She turned to look at him, and saw that his hand was still offered to her. Smiling, she took it as she stood up.

“Yes, I’d love some fresh air too."

He smiled, the dolefulness in his eyes fading away.

#

Outside Moonstone Cafe, the gentle late spring breeze felt good on their skin. It was mid-April. Flowers were in full bloom, and the chirping of birds and crickets formed a soothing chorus. The two of them stood there for a while, taking in the beautiful scenery surrounding them. Hermione closed her eyes and sucked in lungfuls of fresh air.

"This place is ... incredible. I feel so well rested," Hermione commented, releasing a happy sigh. “The golden meadow is my favorite."

Malfoy smiled.

"It's my secret spot,” he said, happy that she seemed more relaxed now than she had been at his manor. “Even as everything else changes in the city, this place never seems to change.”

He turned around to look at the coffee shop, admiring its seasoned timber structures. "Max, the owner you saw, he chose this place precisely because it’s so far removed from everything and everyone. People think of it as a wasteland nowadays, but this castle used to be an important fortress until the fifteenth century.”

“Really? I did notice a lot of abandoned farm fields on the way here,” Hermione mused, as they started to walk aimlessly along the crumbling castle walls just behind the cafe. 

Malfoy side-glanced at Hermione, impressed by her perceptiveness once again. 

“I guess he doesn’t get a lot of customers,” she was still saying, “Seems like he's enjoying himself though.”

“He doesn’t mind, no.” Malfoy chuckled as he opened a gate and showed her the cafe’s back garden, which was a maze of luscious spring greens, herbs, and blooming fruit trees. Several chickens pecked for morsels and worms in the corner. Max seemed like a self-sufficient man.

“And it’s fine by me,” Malfoy continued to say, leading her away now towards the castle. “Not much of a secret spot if everyone knows about it."

Hermione glanced at him curiously. "And you let me in on your secret."

Malfoy smirked his trademark smirk. "You should feel special."

It made her blush, and she had to look away briefly to compose herself. He noticed and chuckled again. 

"You know, with the way you blush when you're around me, Granger. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were hopelessly in love with me."

She turned back to face him immediately.

"You are so full of yourself!" she exclaimed, going all scarlet.

_She's so cute all flushed up,_ he thought to himself, _except if I tell her that now she'd probably explode on me._

"Sorry, Granger. It's just so easy," he said with a sly smirk. "I can't help myself."

Hermione gave him a dangerous look. He backed off with a lighthearted laugh. As they kept walking, Hermione admired the thick vines that twirled and grew along the crumbling mossy stone walls. Squirrels were sprinting up and down the fallen blocks, and she was pleasantly surprised to find a robin’s nest in one of the many crevices of the castle. Malfoy watched her child-like wonder with amusement, and noticed for the first time some of the smaller things in what was a familiar landscape to him. They talked about nothing and everything as they walked up and down the ruins. The topic of the war or what they did in their daily lives never came up. It could be that the thought of having to lie about them subconsciously stopped them from doing so, but neither felt the need to poke or prod. They were happy with the way they were, strolling in the countryside, relaxing and exploring. As the sky began to turn pink and yellow, they found themselves on the tallest tower of the castle's old fort, looking out at the shimmering horizon where land met sea.

"Are we safe up here?" Hermione questioned in concern, her footsteps unsteady on the terrace.

"You're fine, Granger," Malfoy calmed her, giving her a hand. "I've been here at least a thousand times."

"You're lying," Hermione said defiantly, taking his hand and finally standing straight next to him.

"Of course I am," he snickered. 

The sun was setting on the horizon, and the sky was quickly turning crimson and orange. Moonstone Cafe was a dot in the landscape now. The wind whispered among the long grasses that rustled and wavered in unison. Far beyond they saw the outlines of geese flying in unison against the sky. Hermione and Draco stood there together, without a word, staring at the breathtaking view. Neither realized that they were still holding each other's hand.

"I wish every day could be like this," Malfoy said quietly.

Hermione looked on at the serene landscape and nodded. She understood what he meant. The gloominess, the war, they all seemed so far removed now. 

Looking up at him, she noticed that he was a good half a head taller than her, taller than she had remembered him to be. His eyes were still focused on the horizon, grey eyes reflecting the orange sunset. _He could be working closely with the Dark Lord._ That spine-tingling thought went through her head once again. Yet there was this calmness that she felt standing next to him. She just simply couldn't explain. Hermione had yet to know for sure that he was an enemy, or what he did in that capacity. Frankly, if he was, he really shouldn’t be trusting her. But right now... right now she felt at peace. Right now she didn't know him, but she understood him. And a strange kind of unspoken trust passed between them. She wasn't afraid. Nothing could hurt her next to him.

He turned to look at her too. Looking into her clear, beautiful eyes, he felt her sincerity, her warmth. He loved the way her long wavy hair blew across her smiling cheeks. He loved how she appreciated the small, beautiful things in this landscape that he cherished so deeply. She didn't even know how special this place was for him. Why did he bring her here? He wasn't sure. But instinctively he knew that they needed this. This here was where they could be who they really were, without being reminded of who they ought to be. And as he stared into her eyes now, he understood that even though, at first glance, Hermione wasn't the most stunning-looking diva around, his childhood biases had blinded him from her beauty for so long. He wished he'd noticed sooner. A lot sooner. _She doesn't belong to me,_ he reminded himself. And she probably never would be.

_ But right now, this moment... I have her, and she has me. _

It was a special moment that they shared. One that they knew was theirs, and theirs only it would stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics featured are from "Guilty" by Al Bowlly. It's one of my favorite songs from the movie "Amelie".


	7. Dittany Salve

“That was dangerous of you, to go with your guard down.”

Hermione was quick to defend her decision. “I was going to talk to you about it—"

But Harry wasn’t listening.

“You need to be more conscious of who he is," he berated, "and what it means to be acquainted with him at a time like this! What were you even thinking?”

She closed her eyes, trying to control her temper. “He is not some one-dimensional monster, Harry,” she said with a sigh.

“I just wanted to hear what he had to say. And I came back safely, didn't I?”

Harry’s eyebrows rose in incredulity. “Are you saying that this is more than a mission to you now?”

“Of course it is, he was a friend of mine!”

She couldn’t understand why this was news to Harry after their conversation.

“I don't know if you can call what you had with him a friendship,” Harry countered.

She knew he was softening the blow the night before, but he spoke with so much candour now that it was hurtful. And s he understood his point more than anyone else,  _but I did care for him._

“And he took the Mark, remember?”

“You don’t need to keep reminding me,” she answered quietly.

How can she show Harry what she was beginning to see in Malfoy? How can she explain what they shared atop the castle ruins? Wasn't her ability to spend a pleasant afternoon with him enough proof that there was more to him than a family name and a Mark on his forearm? Malfoy was more complicated than she had come to assume, and she found it unjust that she was supposed to shut down that observation.

“He apologized,” she began again with patience. “He actually admitted to being wrong. Doesn’t his humility count for something?”

Harry tried. He really tried to understand, but he was also terrified of her willingness to be blind when it came to the Slytherin ferret.

“Anyone can apologize, Hermione. It's his actions that count."

Hermione groaned. “And what do you know about his actions beyond him taking the Dark Mark? I thought that was the whole point of me  _spying_  on him, to find that out. This is  _Malfoy_  that we're talking about - as  _you_ continue to remind us. When have you heard him apologise?”

She had a point, but Harry wasn't ready to put his many years of bad blood with Malfoy behind.

“You don’t know what his intentions are,” he argued.

“And you don’t know that they are bad! Have you forgotten Sirius’ advice?”

At that, Harry showed a pained expression. Hermione knew she’d hit a sore spot. She always had a knack for knowing exactly what to say to get a reaction out of him and Ron, and she felt bad when she caught herself doing it, but it was almost always effective. Almost.

“Which one,” he asked quietly, clearly fuming. He didn't like her bringing up the closest person to a father figure he had in his life.

She stared back at him almost apologetically, and hesitated. Harry was still waiting. She invoked Sirius Black’s words anyway in the end.

“People aren’t either good or Death Eaters," she quoted almost word for word, at least from how Harry had enumerated to her and Ron back then. "It’s what you choose to do.”

A dark expression clouded over Harry.

“And he chose to be a Death Eater, Hermione."

She let out a vexed sigh. 

This really was going nowhere.

The couple sat in brooding silence, staring at each other from opposite ends of the living room. It was only then that Hermione noticed that Harry had put on his work clothes.

“You’re going out now? It’s …” she looked at the clock and frowned even further. “It’s almost midnight.”

Harry nodded and got up to get his boots from the doorway, where she was standing.

“There was an arson case at Gringott’s earlier.”

He caught the sullen look on her face.

“Look, I’m sorry I can’t stay to finish this conversation,” he said in protest while tying his shoelaces. “This is just how it is with our line of work.” 

When he looked up again, he saw the increasingly indignant expression on her face, and the way her arms were folded in front of her defiantly. Of course, Hermione wasn't mad that he was going to work, per say. He straightened himself and softened his expression as he reached out to touch her arm apologetically.

“I didn’t mean to be patronising,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Hermione softened her stance too, unfolding her arms. When he slid his hand down to hers, she looked into his eyes and saw that he meant it. She squeezed back.

"It's okay ..." 

She was going to say she understood, but Harry's next words paused her.

"You’re one of us now ... all I'm saying is that we report to Colin and regroup when there are major changes.”

He had a point, but she was still upset. He was also still patronizing, and the lack of awareness bothered her. She let go of his hand, walking towards the kitchen.

“So is reporting on other people’s assignments your job too?” she asked, holding up the letter from Charles that she’d left on the counter earlier that morning. “I don’t remember you being my supervisor.”

Harry was the indignant one now. 

“It’s what you were supposed to do! I just sent him a quick note because you were—”

“In my name?” she retorted before he could finish.

“No, I—” he paused, sighing before chuckling sardonically. “We have the same initials, love.”

Well, he was right about that. Down to their middle initials, in fact. His James to her Jean. But Hermione was too worked up to accept it as an excuse.

“My point still stands,” she said stiffly, putting her hand on her hip. “If I should’ve done something, I’d like to know. Not find out when I get an owl from my boss, who thinks I wrote the report." 

She was fuming now. 

"Did you even keep me a copy for me?”

“Right, I get it.”  Harry was dismissive, because he was rather annoyed that they were straying from his original concern. He should’ve remembered how much Hermione hated people interfering in her work.

“I’ll let Colin know that I was the one who sent that note, so—”

He paused at an unfamiliar sound from their front door. 

Hermione’s expression changed from anger to concern too. 

The door was glowing and rattling. Harry realized he had lost track of time in the midst of their argument. He quickly strolled over to their door and flicked his wand to turn off the alarm.

“Relax ... it’s just Layla.”

Hermione nodded, though still looking shaken. That was the first time that their security system was triggered.The barrier, which acted as a concealment charm, much like the one that had protected 12 Grimmauld Place, came down temporarily as Harry unlocked the door.

“High security arrangements for the Boy-Who-Lived and the Golden Girl, eh?” Layla chortled as she was let in. 

She looked like a different person now, in the S.A.U. standard white on black outfit, and combat boots that matched Harry's. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail. There were no dangling accessories on her today, no miniskirts. It was work time.

“Hey, sorry." He rushed to grab his jacket. “It’s quite over the top really,” he said hesitantly, glancing at Hermione.

Hermione said nothing as she watched her husband gather his keys to leave. She knew the truth. Harry had asked for the security system in exchange for her forced employment at the Ministry. If they insisted it was to keep her safe, he wanted the best of it. 

It reminded her why she had so much trouble complying with his instructions at work. He never fought for her the way she wanted him to. And she wished they could just sit down and talk about _that_ right now, which was more important to their relationship than "Malfoy good, Malfoy bad",  but Harry seemed unaware of that. 

His mind was becoming preoccupied with work already.

“I’ll see you at the office in the morning,” he said, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead before heading out. “Do report what happened to Colin and Sullivan.”

Layla perked up and gave them a quizzical look, so Harry pushed her nosey face out into the corridor before continuing. 

“If you asked me though," he said hesitantly, as he saw the seeminlgy blank expression on Hermione. He didn't fail to notice the thin frown on her lips, suggesting that she hadn't asked and wasn't about to. 

"You really shouldn't get involved with him again."

Hermione avoided his gaze then.  Harry understood that she had no intention of acknowledging his point of view right now, and he briefly looked as if he was going to leave it there, but at the last minute, he caved, turning back to hold her in his arms. 

He forced her to meet his gaze.

“I trust you, love,” he whispered.

It was troubling to hear him say that, after all his voiced misgivings. _Does he even mean it?_ Harry had such an innate, desperate need to be a protector. Currently, his desire wasn't being fulfilled. 

“You’re all I’ve got,” Harry said too in earnest.  “I don't want to see you get hurt.”

_Or have you taken from me,_  he said silently to himself, as he finally sighed in relief when Hermione nodded in response, albeit hesitantly.

“I’ll be careful,” she said as she sent him off at the door.  “I just ... don’t want to go into this assuming the worst of him.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but it would have to do for now.

#

Director Sullivan was utterly unconvinced.

"So he invited you all the way to the manor, and  _nothing happened?_ "

"We had tea," Hermione reported methodically.

_Why is he so interested in the risqué details anyway?_

"I met his house elf," she continued to report. "And we fought. I’d dare say that that was quite a lot of things happening for my first time seeing him in four years."

She thought she could see a vein growing in Sullivan’s large forehead. His eyes definitely widened significantly.

“You fought?”

“Not a physical—”

“You _fought_?” Sullivan interrupted again in disbelief. “For Merlin's sake, how hard was it to hold your tongue for  _one night_ , woman?”

Hermione snapped her mouth shut.

_I'm holding it right now, arsehole._

“I don't know what you were expecting, sir,” she responded after a brief silence. “Malfoy and I have always been at each other's throats. It's not like we were ever lovers, or even friends.”

That last bit wasn't quite honest, but she chose to stick with Harry's version of the truth this time, at least in front of her vexing boss.

Charles cleared his throat from his desk. They had gathered in his office for her post-mortem of the opera night. “So,” he punctuated measuredly as he made eye contact with Hermione. “What did you argue about?”

“Yes, what could you  _possibly_ bicker about on your first meeting in four years?”

She so badly wanted to jinx Sullivan.

“How he was treating his house elf," she deadpanned instead. Charles raised an amused eyebrow at that, but Sullivan wasn't as discreet. 

“How typical,” he said under his breath.

_Maybe Ginny’s signature bat-eye boogey would do._

Luckily for Sullivan, his secretary knocked right at that moment, requesting his attention elsewhere.

“Alright, Auror Colin, you wrap this up,” he said with heavy disapproval as he pushed off from the wall he was leaning on. “I have more important things to attend to.” Hermione felt the heat rising to her cheeks. 

“And Potter,” Sullivan added, now motioning to his secretary to come closer. “Since you’ll have more free time again, this is the Gringotts case file—”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Hermione interrupted, very insulted by his insinuation.

“The arson case last night,” said Sullivan with some irritation, totally missing the point.

“Only we think it was a cover up for a break-in attempt,” said the secretary with a peeved eyebrow raised. She, too, seemed annoyed by her questioning.

Hermione wanted to glower right back, but kept her professional straight face as she had never met this woman before. 

"What is the name of this one now?" she wondered.  Sullivan never seemed to be able to keep a secretary for more than a few weeks at a time.

This was already the fourth secretary since Hermione had started working at the Office of Secrecy, and she had only started a few months ago. The tiny woman with smooth raven hair handed her a thick folder. Hermione narrowed her eyes at it, but accepted the document - admittedly, she was rather curious. This was the case Harry had run off to the night before. 

“The goblins are being non-cooperative about whose vaults were damaged,” the secretary explained, pushing her crescent moon shaped glasses up her button nose. If only she didn’t have such a sour attitude. She did seem like a competent one, for once.

Sullivan added on in the same breath, “But we’re going to access case evidence and employee witnesses regardless. So,” he grinned insincerely, “I need you to sort out legal paperwork in case they invoke their privacy protection law.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Those laws are in place for a reason, sir,” she stated reproachfully. “What you are asking of me is hardly moral.” And definitely outside of her job description.

Veins were definitely popping out on his forehead now. Sullivan looked like a brooding bald eagle.

“You’re trained in wizarding and magical creature rights, are you not?” 

"Well, I, yes, but—"

“Make yourself useful then! We have no time for your righteous garbage, Potter. Get to work, or you know the consequences!” Sullivan was referencing his promise to terminate her employment. He  then quickly ushered his secretary out the door, and slammed it in Hermione’s face without another word.

Hermione would've thrown the Gringotts case folder at the door, except Charles cleared his throat, making her spin around and face him in surprise. She’d forgotten that her supervisor was still there, or that this was his office. 

The enigmatic chief auror was leaning against his desk, looking rather curious.

“Do you always interact with him like that?” he asked with an eyebrow raised.

“With whom? That mouth-breather?” Hermione spat without thinking.

For a second, she thought that there was a twinkle in Charles’ eye, though he didn’t smile at her audacity. It made her feel a little better.

“And then?” he pressed instead.

She raised an eyebrow back at him.

“Don't tell me that was all.” 

He gave her a meaningful look. 

“Your husband seemed mighty displeased for you to be done with Malfoy.”

It was reassuring, really, how astute he was, especially standing in contrast to their amoral buffoon of a shared boss. Hermione had secretly hoped that she would be dropped from the Malfoy case, so she could leave this all behind, but Sullivan’s demeaning attitude had well surpassed her expectations. She was furious, and felt the deep need to redeem herself in somebody’s eyes. Certainly in those of the supervisor of her assignment.

“Malfoy apologized, and … I still have to return some borrowed clothes to him, so I’m sure we will be in touch again.”

Charles relaxed into his seat, whistling softly. “So it did go well.”

Hermione only gave him a tentative nod. She knew perfectly well that she had left out the bit about flying to meet Malfoy. And the cafe. And the castle. Certainly holding hands in the sunset. No, those memories and knowledge were hers alone. She had decided on that. Charles’ still questioning look didn’t make her feel confident though.

“I do have to ask,” he said.

She straightened herself, bracing for whatever it was.

“Potter—Harry, that is—clearly dislikes Malfoy, but I have not been able to sense that same animosity from you. What is he to you, if not a friend, or a former lover?”

Her lie was catching up on her.

Hermione gulped. “He … was someone I worked with closely, someone … ” She realized that there was more truth in her words than she had thought, and cast her eyes down to her feet. “Someone who made a choice that I couldn’t agree with. We hadn’t really spoken since. Not until Saturday night.”

The heartache from that winter day caught up with her again. Will she ever have the courage to ask him why he took the Mark?

Charles noticed her focus on Malfoy’s actions, but not his character. He clicked his tongue and swirled over to his desk, sitting down in his chair. He motioned for her to do the same in the chair across from him, and she did as she was asked, still clutching the Gringotts case file to her chest.

“Well then,” he said, clasping his hands together, “Let me just say that I am very pleasantly surprised by the progress that you’ve made. I would, however, really suggest you not to go off script too much next time, if only for your safety.”

He gave her a grave look, but Hermione was still speechless that he was giving her a go-ahead, Sullivan’s disapproval notwithstanding. 

“It's important to take charge of the meeting arrangements at least," Charles was still saying, "Have some control over the circumstances."

"... I understand." Hermione's answer was measured. She was still mad at herself for being so desperate for his approval. Now she was stuck in this mess for sure. 

Charles, now, seemed unsatisfied with her answer. He looked like he was trying to decipher her tone, which he seemed to be doing a lot today.

"Potter."

Hermione fidgeted a bit, but looked up to meet his gaze.

"Is there something else you wanted to tell me?"

She tried to sense his intention in his composure, but the older wizard maintained his solemn authority. Should she tell him her true thoughts on Malfoy and her assignment? 

She'd just let slip her dislike for Sullivan, and even explained her past with Malfoy, but now she was beginning to think that maybe the two were simply playing Good Cop, Bad Cop. 

Did she trust him that much?

“Nothing else, sir.” 

_Not today._

“Charles,” he corrected her briskly.

She scrunched up her nose in defiance.

“Then please call me Hermione. It’s confusing.”

The auror finally cracked a smile. _One strike per meeting._ Her record was pretty good.

“Very well.”  He pulled out a purple department memo and began scribbling on it. Hermione assumed she’d convinced him. Purple was for department chairs only.

“But … Hermione,” the auror paused with a tiny frown. He wasn’t used to calling his subordinates by their first names. Charles was just a code name, nothing more. It didn’t even feel like it belonged to him.

“I do ask that you put your trust in me more.” He folded the memo into a paper plane and sent it off, presumably to Sullivan. He then locked eyes with her again. “And I’ll trust your judgement as well.”

Hermione smiled a little, though she wasn't quite ready to let down her guard. It was nice though, to have someone’s confidence around here.

He then looked down and began to sort through his paperwork, as if ready to end the conversation. “And don’t worry about the Gringotts case, I will let Sullivan know that—”

“Oh no,” Hermione interrupted, holding on to the folder tightly now. Charles looked surprised.

“Well, I don't agree with his methods, but I do want to be involved. It’s important that I get some legal work experience beyond my main subjects of interest. You know ...” She felt somewhat shy to talk about her thoughts on her career.

Charles cracked another smile. _Twice in one meeting. Damn._

Hermione smiled back.

“Alright then, Ms. Workaholic. Just let me know if it begins to interfere with your work on Malfoy. Dismissed.” 

#

Wednesday afternoon, Hermione was disappointed to see that Hedwig had stopped by to visit Harry at the Ministry without a reply from Malfoy. She wasn't sure what she was hoping for, but she was hoping for  _something_.

She'd thanked the Slytherin alum for sending her the dress she'd worn to the opera, thanked Symon for his perfect press cleaning, and mentioned that Narcissa's dress was at Madam Malkin's, ready for pick up on Thursday morning. 

_Surely he has something to say in return?_

But no. There was no owl from Draco Malfoy. To take her mind off him, she tried to focus on her old Hogwarts interviews with her house elf informants, but even _those_ files reminded her of him. 

She was thankful now for the Gringotts case. At least that was something entirely unrelated to think about. 

Despite her best attempts, however, Hermione spent most of the afternoon blaming herself for the way she had worded her letter, of all things.

“Should have asked a question. Shouldn’t have left it so open-ended…” she mumbled, as she tried to piece together evidence from the aurors’ reports and the Gringotts employees’ complaints. Her ability to multi-task with such distracted thoughts were truly impressive, but this was also the woman who had once managed her extra third year classwork and received top grades, (owning a Time-Turner helped). It was a piece of cake.

Her eyes scanned over Harry’s scrawling handwriting at ease, (years of experience helped,) and noted that the fire had started adjacent to a high security sector, where the vaults of many historically wealthy families were located. The Gringotts employees guarding that sector insisted that it was an arson case in the normal vaults, and that there was no reason to provide the Ministry with information on other areas of the bank, but Harry's report suggested otherwise.

_Diversion tactics consistent with recent break-in cases in Diagon Alley,_ he had written.  _Noted evidence of break-in attempts in Sector A124; fire started in adjacent Sector C209. Second door to vault in northwestern corner of Sector A124 was covered with dark cloth, rubbles just barely visible at its feet. Immediate intervention by Gringotts employees; no further SAU investigation conducted as of 4:52AM on Monday, April 15, 2002._

As she read Harry and Layla's interview notes with the employees, she, too, came to a similar conclusion. There was something suspicious about the concealed Gringotts vault in Sector A124.

There was a knock at her door then, and the man in question poked his head through a crack.

“How's it going?” Harry asked, nodding at the case files on Hermione’s desk.

She swirled around in her chair to face her husband, and noticed that he looked rather unkempt. There were bags under his eyes, and he was starting to grow a somewhat messy beard. If the hair on his head was any indication, his beard can’t be any tidier.

“Have you slept at all in the last few days?” she asked with a concerned frown. She'd barely seen him at home since Sunday night, except for his return earlier that day for a change of clothes.

Harry made a hand motion indicating that he had, sort of, and looked at her expectantly again. He really never seemed to tired to solve a case.

Hermione shook her head and smiled. _What do I do with you?_ her face seemed to say. She then grimaced and looked at the case files on her desk once again.

“I’m not sure yet,” she answered honestly, pushing aside the continuing thoughts of Malfoy in her mind. “A blueprint of the bank would really help. If just to get a sense of the logic of the arsonists.”

Harry sat on the side of her desk and nodded gravely.

“And the list of vault owners in both sectors, but they’re not going to give us that.” 

She agreed, though still thoughtful and not admitting defeat.

“You could ask Bill?” she suggested. The eldest Weasley sibling used to be a Curse Breaker for Gringotts in Egypt, but had transferred back to the London bank in the last couple years.

Harry looked sceptical, so she broke it down for him. "I know, he's not allowed to give you a vault-to-name list, but — and, this is a big but — he loves to discuss different security systems and lock breaking ideas, especially over a glass of Fire Whiskey.” She winked at Harry, and his eyes lit up with the beginning of an inkling of understanding.

“If you can convince him to tell you what is in that sector, you just need to get a quote for the security structures, and make a list of the families who can afford them. You’ll be able to narrow it down significantly after that.”

He smacked her desk in an "ah-ha!" moment, and propped himself over it to give her a quick kiss. “Brilliant as usual, love!” he said as he rushed out the door.

“Wait!” she called after him, peeling out of her office.

Harry turned around but kept walking, backwards.

“Are you coming home for dinner tonight?” she asked.

“I’ll try!” he said, and then he was off.

Hermione sighed happily as the door closed behind him. It felt like they were at Hogwarts again, solving mysteries together. Even Ron was working on the case. She’d caught a glimpse of the red head earlier that day, (though she had to lie that she was just visiting Harry for lunch.) Ron had been arguing with her boss over the lack of communication between SAU and his colleagues in the Auror Office. 

She wished she could tell her old friend how she understood his frustrations with Sullivan, and how, for the first time with the Office of Secrecy, she was finally starting to feel included.

#

Harry had to work overtime that night, which wasted a large portion of Hermione’s delicious shrimp scampi, but she shrugged it off as any other day, and stored the extra pasta away for lunch the day after. 

His absence, though, turned out to have saved them from another argument over Draco Malfoy - Hermione and Harry had been avoiding the subject as much as possible since Sunday. Discussing the Gringotts case was just that much easier. 

As she was finishing up cleaning the dishes, a large pair of glowing eyes peering through the kitchen window almost caused her to drop her finest china. Peering out back at them, she realised who it was, and let the familiar Eagle Owl in.

Her heart skipped a beat as the Malfoy family owl dropped a parchment on her kitchen counter, and again when she unrolled it and read the first few sentences.

_I was planning on picking up some books from F &B next door today, but they can certainly wait a day . You can return the dress to me in person then. What do you say? P.S. Sorry, this took longer than expected. Your bird (or, am I mistaken, but was that Potty’s old owl?) left before I could intervene. Hope Thuban gets this to you in time. - D._

“So your name is Thuban, hm?” Hermione cooed, stroking the beautiful grey owl with the wide-set eyes, who was now perched comfortably on her window sill.

He gave her a light peck on the hand, acknowledging his name. She smiled and took a small handful from her sack of bread ears for Hedwig, and gave it to him, which he happily accepted with a hoot. The smell of bread sent Hedwig quipping from her perch, asking for her share, so Hermione took a large piece and tossed it across the room, which the female owl caught with ease.

As the two birds feasted, she pulled out ink and parchment from a drawer and plopped down on the bench, feeling a strange excitement that she hadn’t felt in years. She wasn’t sure if she should feel quite so thrilled, but the thought of seeing Malfoy again made her heart race so. She couldn’t deny it.

She dipped her quill in the ink pot and wrote a cheeky reply to Malfoy.

_Yes, (and yes. Hedwig must be upset that you still name her owner after a toilet. She’s normally very patient with our correspondents.)_

Pausing to look at his owl, who twisted his head sideways to look back at her, she smiled as she suddenly realized something.

_Thuban is a gorgeous name, fitting for his pale yellow eyes. Is it a family tradition to find inspirations in the skies? I am guessing that he is named after the ancient pole star in your constellation.  Bookstore at 11AM? - H._

She finished off the letter, and sent Thuban off with the parchment tied to his talon. He returned early the next morning, with another letter and an appetite for more crumbs.

Hermione couldn’t help but chuckle at Malfoy’s response.

_(I was going for deranged, mental, off his nutters, but a latrine sounds good to me too.) I suppose it is a tradition of sorts. He has exceptionally shiny eyes in the night, so I thought it appropriate to name him after my brightest star. Bonus points to Gryffindor for knowing the color of Thuban, the star, that is. It was a coincidence. Seriously though, how do you do it? I had to double check in an encyclopaedia for that one. 11AM it is. - D._

#

“You do know that you oscillate between utterly insufferable and oddly charming, don’t you?” Hermione said, as soon as she entered Flourish and Blotts.

Draco Malfoy, who was waiting for the shop attendant at the cashier counter, smirked and turned around to face her. He studied her disposition as she walked up to him with a Malkin’s bag, looking amused and cross at him at the same time. It was a sweet spot that he enjoyed deeply. Maybe a little too much.

“Thank you,” he said with an exaggerated bow, knowing it would infuriate her further. “Though I deplore your choice adjective for my charm. There is nothing odd about my appeal." Hermione rolled her eyes. He wasn't done. "Unless, you mean unconventional, in which case I will wholeheartedly accept your compliment.”

He then gave her a saccharine smile that reminded her of a Cheshire cat.

“Eminently punchable too,” she added then, with a scoff that was more out of jest than serious. She handed him the bag containing his mother’s now clean dress, and Malfoy made a mock hurt expression as he took it from her.

“You’ve already done that once,” he said poutily, touching his nose at the memory of the incident in their third year.

“Well, you definitely deserved that one,” she replied with a dangerous glint in her eye. He really was a prat when they were kids. Horrible prat that would've very much gotten Buckbeak killed if not for her Time-Turner, but he doesn't know that.

Hermione swooped her long wavy hair up into a quick bun as she walked pass him with a new found sassiness to the new books section. Malfoy couldn’t help but stare at the nape of her neck as she walked by.  _Merlin, she looks delicious._

He quickly shook the thought out of his mind.

_She just reminded you of how she had sucker punched you when you were thirteen, and your response is to fantasize about kissing her neckline? Wow, this is a new low for Draco Malfoy._

He made a late indignant grunt, and watched as she checked out the bookstore’s meagre collection of new arrivals. “I’m glad Hogwarts is still up and running,” he heard her say. She was tracing her fingers along the new textbooks that were made for the coming school year.

Malfoy blinked in confusion at the change in topic, but she gave him an explanation soon enough. “Seems to be keeping this place alive,” she said sadly, glancing around at the significantly downsized bookstore. Flourish and Blotts was one of the few stores alive on Diagon Alley, as was Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

A grave expression flashed across Malfoy’s face, but it was gone before Hermione had a chance to catch it.

"Hmm," he hummed. "Wouldn’t know where to order these books if it were gone, I suppose.”

That piqued Hermione’s curiosity, and she turned to see that Mr. Blotts, one of the shop owners, had appeared from the storage in the back.

“I’m sorry for interrupting, but here are your books … Mr. Malfoy,” the meek old man said. He cautiously placed a few heavy tomes on the counter and then managed the cashier, all the while eyeing the odd couple with curious eyes.

A Malfoy having a civil conversation with the most famous muggle-born witch of his generation? What a strange sight indeed.

While Malfoy was momentarily distracted by his search for his bag of galleons in his inner jacket pocket, Hermione tried to sneak a peek at his books. It was only then that she noticed his bandaged left hand.

She reached down without thinking, touching his left arm.

“What happened?”

Glancing down to where her hand had touched him, Malfoy felt a lump in his throat, much like the one he had atop the castle ruins, when he noticed that they were still holding hands.

Hermione blushed when she noticed as well, recalling the intimacy of their moment alone atop the castle just a few days ago. She retracted her hand as casually as she could, not wanting to reveal her nervousness. Malfoy felt a slight sense of loss. He liked her touch.

“It’s nothing,” he answered, his eyes still lingering on her hand, which she had now hid behind her with her other hand, too. “Just a minor accident in the lab.”

“The lab?” she asked, with a slight tilt to her head. Hermione didn’t remember reading about Malfoy working in a lab anywhere. Wasn’t he supposed to be a real estate owner?

He nodded, a small smirk rising to his lips, as he looked up to meet her gaze. She was looking at him with such curious eyes. He quite liked knowing that she was taking an interest in him.

“It’s my personal one. You could call it a hobby … I suppose,” he said, looking down at his new books as if he were pondering something. He seemed displeased with calling it that, but it wasn’t a job, apparently.

“I’ve been attempting to self-learn a few things,” he said, spreading the books out, so she could see the headings clearly.

“Alchemy?” she asked, glancing at the one that was on top.  _Advanced Alchemy Series: IV. Soul Bonding Objects_ , it said.

Malfoy coughed, self-conscious of his only just developing knowledge on the subject matter.

“It’s a great series. They cover a lot of ground. The last one was on plants.”She saw the way his eyes danced, as he flipped to the first few pages and showed her a list of  _Advanced Alchemy_  publications. The childlike nerdy excitement hidden underneath his calm composure made her smile. Draco would’ve been an avid chemist, if he had been a muggle.

“Spagyric alchemy?" she mused with intrigue. "I don't think we got to get through it much during our NEWTs with Professor Slughorn," she said, reminiscing on some of her favorite chapters in their sixth year Potions textbook. “It was after Golpalott’s Third Law and the making of blended poison antidotes,” she recalled, glancing through the rest of his new reads.

One of them had a cover design very similar to her favorite book,  _Hogwarts: A History_. Its title was, instead,  _Flamel’s Quest: An Alchemic History_. She smiled, remembering her first year at Hogwarts, while Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her detailed memory of what they had learned in school.

"Show off," he muttered.

Hermione started to glare at him, but noticed that his smirk had grown wider. Even though his eyes were focused on his new books, there was a softness in them that suggested that he was, in fact, just teasing. She smiled then, her eyes falling back to his books again.

“Are you interested in becoming a healer?” she asked, pointing at his last one.

_A Healer’s Definite Guide to Potions_ , it read.

Spagyric alchemy was also usually on herbal medicines.

“Or is that for your injury?”

She glanced down at his bandaged hand once again.

He shrugged in response, like it was nothing.

“I was going to check out the apothecary after this, in case that didn’t work out,” he said, stacking the books back together with some difficulty.

Hermione frowned.

"You're going to make a healing salve from scratch, with that hand."

She questioned his sanity, and his common sense.

Draco huffed.

"It's not that hard. We have a family recipe. I just need some dittany and—what are you doing, Granger?"

He watched in bewilderment as Hermione rummaged around in her handbag, until she found what she was looking for. She pulled out a tiny jar.

"What is that?"

“If you wouldn’t mind,” she said impatiently. Malfoy glanced at her with a curious expression, but didn’t say anything when she reached for his arm and pulled him further back into the store, leaving his books at the front counter. He liked that she was voluntarily touching him again. He hadn't expected that.

There were a few chairs in the back, for people who enjoyed a preview before deciding on their purchases. Before she could sit him into one though, Malfoy suddenly had a brilliant idea. He grabbed her arm with his good hand, and pressed her up against the closest bookcase, causing her to let out a little yelp of surprise.

Hermione felt a blush rising to her cheeks as he stood up close. The tip of his leather shoes touched the tip of her nude suede pumps, and his nose touched hers. His breath was so close to her lips, that she inhaled, involuntarily, his now noticeably distinct cologne. It was a delightfully intoxicating mixture of citrus, woody magnolia, and a whif of roses.  _Gods,_ she wasn’t going to forget his smell so soon now.

She looked up hesitantly to meet his eyes, which were hooded and dark with lust.  _Oh god._

“Trying to get a secret snog back here … are we?” he whispered.

She let out another peep, and quickly pushed him off like a small animal trying to escape. Oh, she was ready to pummel him, too, except Malfoy moved away with such ease that she was left confused.

She wasn't sure anymore if he had ever intended to go forth with his actions.

Sure enough, she looked up to find him waggling his eyebrows at her in jest, with his right hand leaning against the bookshelf still, and the injured left hand now behind his back. She growled in contempt, and, trying hard to hide the butterflies in her stomach, she gave him a light shove downwards, this time, which got him to settle into a chair finally.

“No snogging?” he continued to ask, with his eyes wide now in mock surprise. She was this close to reprimanding him, but finally laughed a little. She, too, remembered the many Hogwarts students whom were found snogging in this exact corner, away from the prying eyes of their parents in the store front.

“I’m a married woman, Malfoy,” she muttered under her breath as she stooped down over him, returning her focus to her jar and his injured hand. “In case you forgot, I’m not a giddy teenage girl anymore.”

Malfoy grinned a little wider, leaning his face close to hers. Hermione froze then. She had realised the mistake in her word choice, again. And at this distance, she could sense his cologne once more, which was now possibly forever imprinted in her as Draco Malfoy.

It didn’t help that his breath felt lovely on her skin.

He drawled mercilessly.

“Are you suggesting … that … you would’ve liked to snog me … as a teenager?”

There was no hiding her flushing cheeks now, but Hermione pressed on, trying to ignore his outrageous flirting. “If you keep sprouting nonsense, you are not getting any of this from me,” she said, as she unscrewed the cap and placed the opened container on a pile of books to their side, which finally caught his attention.

“And what is this … thing … that you’re intending to keep from me?” he asked, side glancing at the jar that contained a jelly-like goop. Malfoy suddenly looked a little concerned. “Do I even want to know?” He turned to watch her again, while she took his injured hand with both hands to carefully remove the bandages.

Her hand was soft. Malfoy couldn’t help but rub his thumb against hers, just oh so softly, so that she would barely feel it. Of course, Hermione felt it unfailingly, and however she tried to ignore it, her throat felt dry from the sensual touch.

“It’s a dittany healing salve, tinkered by yours truly,” she said, feeling her breath catch as he gingerly placed more weight on her hand, and his thumb squeezed hers. At first, she thought he was teasing again, but then she saw the way he grimaced as the burns became increasingly visible, and she understood that he was still in pain, and the squeeze was one for comfort and moral support, if anything. She couldn’t believe that he had been joking with her so lightheartedly for the last quarter hour. Malfoy was just that good at hiding it. 

“It does a pretty good job with burns, if I say so myself.”

Malfoy grinned with a little difficulty. “I’m sure it does.” There was no malice in his comment, just an attempt to hide the pain, and even a hint of hopefulness and faith. She pretended not to notice, not to smile because of it, but it felt nice to have him rely on her, something she never expected to experience.

She winced though, when she finally saw the full extent of his injury, which covered about half of his left hand. It was still quite fresh, likely a burn that he had received just that morning. She inspected his hand closely, noting a silver ring on his middle finger, which was remarkably unscathed when compared to his two swollen smaller digits.

“I spilled some fast evaporating ingredients from the cauldron,” he said, pointing to the back side of his ring finger and pinky.

"What was it?"

Malfoy gave her the list of ingredients involved, including asphodel, St. John's wort, maypop, zinc minerals, and a touch of dragon blood.

Hermione made note of their properties. It looked as though a sudden thought went through her mind, and she met Malfoy's eye, who was observing her now. Silence descended between them and she returned to carefully studying his hand. It was borderline a second degree burn, one which she assessed her ointment would be sufficient to heal. She reached into her bag once again and found some cotton wads in her makeup pouch. After asking him to remove his ring momentarily for her, she scooped a generous amount of the salve with the cotton, and lightly smeared it over his burn. The soothing effect was immediate, and Malfoy let out a sigh without intending to. This was even better than his mother’s recipe.

"Merlin…"

He couldn't help himself.

Hermione blushed furiously. There was something incredibly erotic about the way he moaned just then, but Malfoy hadn't noticed. He was marvelling at her handiwork, and thoroughly enjoying how it felt to have her work the ointment into his skin. The ugly, angry redness was already fading. After a while, it only left behind a large scab that did not hurt any longer.

“You need a skin repair tonic,” she said hastily, recapping the balm container and balling up the old bandages and used cotton wads for the trash. “It’ll fix the roughness of your skin in no time—what is it?”

Malfoy was staring at her again.

“You experiment with potions a lot, Granger?” he asked, unable to keep the awe out of his voice. 

Hermione felt a tinge of redness return to her cheeks. He had called her by her maiden name,  _again._  She also wasn't sure why he almost looked so ... hot and bothered, too. She hadn't intended for the healing salve to be sensual.

“Just trying to improve on basic home remedies and supplements,” she mumbled, putting away the balm. “Salves, painkillers, hangover cures, and the like.”

He whistled in amusement as he put his ring back on. He raised his hand into the light for a better look. His smaller digits were no longer swollen. “Didn’t see you for an alcoholic,” he quipped.

Hermione scoffed, picking up her bag. “It’s not for me,” she said defensively as she stood up straight again and patted dust off her pants.

“The-Potty-Who-Lived drowning his sorrows in alcohol then?”

Malfoy was alluding to his long time derision of Harry’s God complex.

She huffed loudly now, arms folded before her.

“It’s his way of coping, yes. Not that I’m happy with it ..."

Hermione's words trailed off as she lowered her gaze. In truth, Harry’s drinking habit only seemed to get worse with the availability of her hangover cure. And she’d just suggested him to grab a drink with Bill to get information out of the Gringotts Curse Breaker. 

It seems that she had become one of the people enabling him.

Malfoy watched as she became crestfallen and frowned.

“Coping with what, having you in his life?” he jeered rather bluntly, but quickly realised it was in poor taste when she looked hurt. 

_Maybe their marriage isn’t going so well._

“Or what,” he continued to say, clearing his throat a bit to ease the tension. “Arresting people like me?”

He gave her a small encouraging smile, to which she responded in kind. He was self-aware after all. She loosened her folded arms.

“Does he have a reason to?” She met his gaze. It was probably as close as she ever got to asking him about his Death Eater allegiance. 

Malfoy went silent as he stood up from the chair, his lips pursed in a line to form a grim expression. Hermione waited for an answer as they began to walk towards the exit, all the while wondering if she’d crossed the line again. She didn't want to tip-toe around sensitive topics with him, but Malfoy had a knack of being awfully secretive about personal things. He always had been.

The young blonde aristocrat picked up his books at the counter, and opened the door to let her out first, before following her out onto the cobblestone pavements of Diagon Alley.

“Let me put it this way,” he finally said, his distant and steely expression juxtaposed with the beautiful midday sunshine. “If one day he finds a good reason to, I will happily turn myself over.”

His answer was ambiguous at best, yet also strangely so revealing.

She responded quietly, walking alongside him. 

“I hope he never has to.”

Malfoy glanced at her then, with the faintest of a smile.

“Don’t want me in Azkaban, Granger?” he asked with a probing glance.

She felt her heart throb in apprehension, but she got it together enough to give him a silent shake of her head. She’d barely registered how he had addressed her again. Malfoy’s eyes widened slightly at her reaction, and softened into a pensive gaze.

They walked like that in silence for a while. Each has had in mind to invite the other to lunch, but now were somehow in two minds.

“Well, it was good seeing you again,” Malfoy finally decided to say, pausing at the crossroads between Knockturn Alley and Carkitt Market. He still intended to head to Mr. Mulpepper's Apothecary to pick up some dittany. 

Hermione nodded. She was to take a detour down the market before she headed back to the Ministry discreetly. It was still a work day after all. She could barely keep down the fluttering feeling in her stomach though, when he placed his hand on her lower back as he turned around to face her, which lingered only a moment longer before letting her go.

“Thank you, for both the dry cleaning, and for fixing my hand,” he said exaggeratedly again, waving his now mostly healed hand at her.

She smiled and shook her head, indicating that it was fine. 

“I can send Hedwig later with the skin repair tonic, if you’d like,” she said, grinning as she remembered their earlier written exchange.  “If you ask nicely enough, she might even give you my modified recipe for the salve.”

Malfoy looked thoughtful for a moment.

“I have a better idea." The mischievous look in his eye made her raise an eyebrow. She remembered that look from not too long ago.

“Why don’t you drop by tomorrow evening? I’ll show you my lab. And,” he smirked conspiratorially. “You can show me how to make it yourself. AND," he was speaking now like a really good salesman. "You can take any ingredient you want from my apothecary and potions cabinet, in return for your generosity.”

Her heart really was fluttering now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for delayed post! Hope you enjoyed the new chapter. Leave comments, kudos, and subscribe :)


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